


Shadow of the Storm

by thelightofmorning



Series: Shadows of What Was, Is and Will Be [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Ableism, Adultery, Alternate Universe - Politics, Bjarni's running the Stormcloaks so they don't completely suck, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Class Differences, Corpse Desecration, Corpses, Crimes & Criminals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Even Irkand cracked open a cold one, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Good news Sigdrifa is dead, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Incompatible Mixed-Orientation Marriage, Misogyny, Multi, Poor Galmar though, Religious Conflict, Rustem's already celebrating, Sex Work, Slavery, So is Ulfric but oh well, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:35:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 25,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24068971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: After the loss of its two most prominent leaders, the Stormcloaks fall under the command of Bjarni Ulfricsson, the new Jarl of Windhelm. With his father's huscarl, his hearthman Ralof and his brother Egil at his side, he takes the fight to the Imperials under a sky darkened by dragon shadows and a looming prophecy, eager to save Skyrim and a sister he's only just learned about - one who is in dire peril.Lia knows very well how dire the peril is. That's why she returned to Helgen, stole the Legion's tax chest, and paid the face-sculptor in Riften to change her features. But a changed face can't change a fate and the blood of the Aurelii will come out. Harried by a prophecy and the legacy of her parents, the Storm-Shadow finds herself juggling the needs of the Thieves Guild (and its very handsome auburn-haired Day Master) and the salvation of Skyrim. Alduin might be black as night, but the shadows are Nocturnal's domain and the newest Thief will steal the souls of his minions for herself...
Relationships: Brynjolf/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn
Series: Shadows of What Was, Is and Will Be [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1751425
Comments: 109
Kudos: 64





	1. Family

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, grief/mourning, slavery, ableism, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child abuse and mentions of genocide, drug use, adultery, sex work, torture, child abandonment and child death.

There was a huge turnout for Sigdrifa Stormsword’s funeral. Some of them might have genuinely mourned the death of the last true Shieldmaiden of Talos but most of them wanted to make sure she was well and truly deceased, cremated and interred in the Hall of the Dead.

After Helgird had interred the simple clay urn into the tomb reserved for the Jarls of Windhelm and their families, the crowds scattered to contemplate on the life and death of Sigdrifa in the privacy of their own homes. Bjarni was aware there would be several toasts drunk in celebration instead of mourning, particularly in the Grey Quarter and the Argonian Assemblage, but he tersely told the leaders of both communities to be _discreet_ about it. Even the Nords who were glad to see the end of the Stormsword would take umbrage at non-Nords openly rejoicing at it.

The Palace of the Kings was colder and grimmer than usual, the fires outside of the kitchen and sauna extinguished for the funeral, and Bjarni tugged his snowy bearskin cloak tighter around himself. “Light the braziers,” he ordered one of the guards on the way to the war room. Even in loss, the civil war continued, and the Stormcloaks were now weaker than they had been nine days ago.

Egil was already bent over the map-table, having made his way straight to the Palace after the entombment, and Galmar stood across from him with ashes still in his long grey hair. As huscarl to Ulfric, he should have followed his Jarl to the grave, but it was the Stormcloak’s last command that the Stone-Fist carry out his wishes and see Skyrim freed before delivering the news to him in Sovngarde. That was if a man ignominiously executed by the Imperials at Helgen went to Sovngarde. First Ulfric and now the Stormsword. Tullius must think the Stormcloaks were on the ropes, waiting for the knockout blow.

_How little he knows us,_ he thought grimly. _But we will educate him._

“I suppose the greyskins and lizards are partying,” Galmar rumbled dourly.

“I’ve asked them to keep it to themselves,” Bjarni answered, joining them at the map-table. “You can’t blame them for holding a grudge after the way Mother treated them during her regency.”

“They should have more respect,” Egil said with a frown.

“Respect is earned, little brother, not automatically given.” Bjarni pushed back his long sable hair. “What’s the military situation? We lost a lot of good soldiers at Giant’s Gap and Darkwater Crossing.”

“Not as bad as we thought,” Galmar said with a sigh. “We’ve got an official report from Helgen.”

“Ralof!” Bjarni burst out in relief as the hearthman stepped out from the darkest corner of the room. “We thought you lost with Father.”

“It was a close thing. To lose the Stormsword on the heels of Ulfric’s death…” The blond warrior looked like he hadn’t slept or washed for a few days and there was still blood on his padded leather gambeson. “Your father died with a sword in his hands, not by the executioner’s axe. He’s surely in Sovngarde now.”

Bjarni closed his eyes, shuddering in relief. “Praise Talos. Can we retrieve the body?”

“No. He’s buried with half of his personal guard and the Bruma Fourth’s elite in the ruins of Helgen.”

Opening his eyes, Bjarni saw Galmar hand Ralof a bottle of homebrewed mead from the stash their father had concealed from their mother. The hearthman downed it in a long, thirsty, desperate swallow.

“I kept him here once he made his report,” Galmar said gruffly. “Because if it gets out dragons have returned, we’re going to have more trouble on our hands.”

_“Dragons?”_ Egil asked, voice raw with grief and disbelief.

“Big black bastard,” Ralof confirmed with a shudder. “Tore through Tullius’ elite soldiers like a hot sword through ice.”

“You’re certain he was black?” Bjarni asked, stories his father told them at night coming back to him.

“Black, spiky…” Ralof trailed off, his eyes widening. “By the Nine. You know what it means.”

“Alduin,” Bjarni answered reluctantly. “Father was a Greybeard and he told us stories about the Three Tongues and their battle at High Hrothgar with the World-Eater.”

“So it’s true, it’s the end of days?” Ralof asked, dread creasing his handsome face.

“Not unless the Last Dragonborn doesn’t come around to kick his lizard arse,” Bjarni growled. “We can do no more than make sure the Old Holds are prepared for possible dragon attacks and to offer whatever assistance the Dragonborn requires to fight the scaly bastards.”

“What if the Dragonborn is an Imperial?” Galmar rumbled.

“I’ll worry about that when or if it happens.” He blew through his fingers. “The Moot meets tomorrow to decide the new Jarl. I don’t care whether the vote goes to me or Egil, because I know we’re on the same page about the civil war. Tullius probably thinks victory is within his grasp. I plan to disabuse him of that notion.”

“I can tell you know Balgruuf will use the dragons as an excuse for his neutrality,” Ralof warned.

“I know. That’s why we’re going to retake Falkreath. That way, whoever loses the election tomorrow will be able to take the Stag Throne. That’s always been the plan.”

Egil frowned. “I thought we were going to restore Grandpa Dengeir?”

Despite the situation, Bjarni made a rude noise in the back of his throat. “He’s batshit and senile. Falkreath is tucked between three hostile provinces-“

“Two,” Galmar corrected.

“Three.” Bjarni gave his brother and adoptive uncle a frank gaze. “The new Jarl’s first act should be to recognise the sovereignty of Hammerfell and Orsinium. If I thought I could hammer it through our Thanes’ thick heads, I’d approach the less radical Reachfolk with an offer of wergild in return for assistance. We’re all fighting for our freedom here.”

“Hammerfell and Orsinium might be doable, but they’ve no love of the Stormcloaks,” Ralof said dubiously. “But the Reachfolk will hate us forever and aye.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Beroc wasn’t fond of Mother in particular, but I’m hoping he’ll thaw enough to at least offer us some covert support. It’s in Hammerfell’s interests to see a free Skyrim.”

Ralof grimaced. “Beroc had damned good reason. Your mother tried to poison his daughter Safiya and her entire household through Astrid.”

_“What?”_ Bjarni and Egil yelped in unison.

Galmar buried his face in his meaty paws with a long sad sigh. “I might as well tell you two. Your parents are dead and the politics probably don’t matter anymore.”

The huscarl lifted his head and walked over to the mead-stash to choose his own bottle. “In the wake of the Great War, Ulfric and Sigdrifa knew they’d need a centre around which to rally true children of Skyrim, and the best way to do that was by uniting the first Battle-Tongue in centuries and the last Shieldmaiden of Talos in marriage.”

“We know. They weren’t in love but they respected each other,” Egil pointed out.

“What you don’t know is that it wasn’t your mother’s first political marriage,” Galmar told him. “Technically, she was a bigamist, because and her first husband – the firstborn son of the Blades Grandmaster of the day – never divorced.”

“I’d call sending an assassin a declaration that the marriage was over,” Ralof observed sardonically.

Galmar chuckled ruefully. “As would I. Rustem Aurelius was a lousy husband by anyone’s standards, but because old Arius had the literal power of life and death over everyone in Cloud Ruler Temple – and the Illusion magic, assassin second son and the madness to back it up – your mother couldn’t tell him to go fuck himself.”

“He believed he was the grandson of Martin Septim, right?” Egil asked soberly.

“He did. As to whether it was true… None could say. Aurelia Northstar went from fucking an Orc to fucking Martin Septim within the span of a good couple moons,” Galmar answered. “But getting back to the story, Rustem’s the consort of Safiya bint Beroc, the Lady of Elinhir. Your mother, liking to clean up loose ends, arranged for his death but the assassin botched the job. For about five, ten years afterwards, Rustem and Sigdrifa were arranging the deaths of each other’s allies and kin until the Redguard branch of the Dark Brotherhood negotiated a ceasefire with the Falkreath Sanctuary.”

“Fuck me,” Bjarni cursed, reaching for a bottle of mead himself. “If Rustem was so keen to end the marriage, they could have just arranged something.”

“Except your mother lied to Ulfric’s father because Hoag never would have allowed his only son to marry a divorced ex-Shieldmaiden,” Galmar said with a sigh. “Ulfric knew, of course. I think they expected Hoag to die sooner than he actually did.”

“So where’s the other boot?” Egil asked sourly. His grief had almost fled in the face of anger and disgust.

“Sigdrifa had a daughter. For the first couple years after the Great War, we all thought she’d died at Cloud Ruler with the Blades, but then we found out she was alive and in the Imperial Workhouse.” Galmar drank some of his mead. “I’ll give Rustem this: his act of retaliation, killing Sigdrifa’s uncle Balgeir, was driven by a desire to avenge the daughter he believed dead. He’s a bastard, but he tends to have reasons for his actions.”

“Once my grandfather was dead, they could have brought this sister of ours here,” Bjarni pointed out.

“The Empire wouldn’t have allowed the last of the Aurelii to go,” Ralof said grimly. “I actually know something of the girl – woman, rather. She’s around my age. I’ve seen her in Bruma. The Empire broke her a long time ago and the only reason she’s allowed to live is because her ancestress, the Madgoddess, threatened to destroy Mede’s line if she died.”

Bjarni drained his bottle dry, then reached for a second and repeated the process. By the gods, his entire family had been built on a lie and behaviours unworthy for a Nord. “Can we retrieve her?”

“What’s the point?” Galmar asked bluntly. “I know you’re thinking of her as your sister-“

“There’s no thinking about it!” Bjarni burst out, suddenly angry. “She is our sister!”

“The fact is that she’s probably a good little Cyrod and couldn’t be trusted,” Galmar continued sadly. “About the kindest thing we could probably do is put her out of her misery. The Empire’s been shuffling her around the worst posts for years, from High Rock to Morrowind and even Blackmarsh, because they keep on trying to kill her ‘accidentally’. She’s completely broken, Bjarni. There’s nothing of a Nord left to save.”

“You sound just like Mother,” Egil said flatly. “I’d prefer to err on the side of mercy.”

“She’s in Skyrim,” Ralof said quietly after another mouthful of mead. “She was at Helgen, but I lost track of her after the dragon attacked.”

Bjarni nodded tightly. “Good. I’ve lost both parents in nine days. _If_ it is safe and feasible, extract her out of the Imperial Holds to Windhelm.”

“And if it isn’t?” Galmar growled.

“Then I guess we need to step up our campaign to liberate Skyrim.” Bjarni set his empty bottle on the table. “Until I go kicking down Alduin’s throat, we will act as if Skyrim will be freed forever and aye. The Empire has inflicted too much suffering on us. It’s time we pay them back in kind.”


	2. Lucky Charm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, criminal acts, alcoholism and corpse desecration. Updating will be erratic because it’s getting to the end of the semester.

Of all the things Brynjolf expected, seeing his first bit of luck march into the Ragged Flagon and make a beeline for Galathil the face-sculptor was fairly low on the list. He’d assumed from her soot-stained attire and general dishevelment that she didn’t have two septims to rub together. But no, the compact brunette dumped a heavy bag of coin stamped with the Imperial dragon-diamond on the table next to the Bosmer mage and tersely asked if it was enough to change her face.

“Hmm, I suppose I can work with your face. After all, the sculptor cannot always choose the finest clay,” Galathil answered snidely.

“Lady, judging by the smell of your breath, you’ve hit the bottle more times than a Companion during a bragging competition,” was Brynjolf’s lucky charm’s dry response. “Just do something about my eyes and nose.”

“The nose _is_ a little large,” conceded Galathil. “But your eyes are quite lovely.”

“Lovely – and distinctive,” was the answer. “Brown eyes, ordinary nose. Are you sober enough to do that?”

“You might need more alteration than that if you’ve stolen from the Legion,” Galathil mused.

“I took it from the tax chest at Helgen and anyone who could have known I had access to it is dead or will assume I died by dragon’s fire,” the brunette answered bluntly. “Which is kind of the point. You only get that kind of opportunity to disappear once in a lifetime and I took it.”

“Very well.” Galathil drank a potion she’d drawn from her robes with a shudder, and then reached out, her hands glowing green-gold with the peculiar combination of Restoration and Alteration magic she used to sculpt flesh like clay. “This may sting a little.”

Brynjolf had heard strong men scream in agony as bone and flesh were moulded under Galathil’s untender fingers but the brunette simply hissed a couple times as her nose, cheekbones, jawline and eye colour were altered. She went from a strikingly attractive woman with a surprising resemblance to Sigdrifa Stormsword, of all people, to a pleasantly pretty but not beautiful one who could come from anywhere between eastern Hammerfell to northern Cyrodiil. Her nose was now upturned instead of beaky, her jaw and cheekbones were rounded instead of square and chiselled, and her eyes had become a rich brown instead of the astonishing blue-green they’d been. Even her dark hair had gone from coal-black to sable-brown, losing its wave in favour of a slight frizz.

“Done. One thousand septims, if you please.” Galathil wiped her fingers on her robe as the brunette tentatively poked at her reshaped face.

“Count it out,” was her hoarse response. “Just leave me enough for a fucking drink.”

Galathil complied and soon the brunette was crossing the tavern to where Vekel leaned against the bar. “Wine, Alto if you have it,” she ordered tersely, dumping a handful of coins on the bar.

“Well, well, colour me impressed, lass,” Brynjolf observed as he came over. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”

“Where else could I go? The other nearest face-sculptor is in Blacklight in Morrowind, and he charges a lot more than a thousand septims,” she said after downing the bottle in one long swallow. “The spring taxes had been sent to Solitude, so the chest was a little empty.”

“You’ve got tits of steel to steal the Legion’s tax chest,” Vex said admiringly.

“The dragon that levelled Helgen helped.” She rubbed her nose gingerly. “The Keep was brought down but I have enough Telekinesis to lift a few rocks and pull out the chest. If you want to loot the place, I recommend getting it done in the next couple days. If Tullius doesn’t reclaim the ruins, bandits will.”

“Second time you’ve mentioned a dragon, lass,” Brynjolf said.

“Yeah. Ulfric was about to get his head cut off when the big black bastard arrived to spoil the General’s day.” She paid for another bottle of wine. “Didn’t do the Stormcloak much good. He got crushed in the ruins after getting a sword in the gut from Quaestor Hadvar.”

Brynjolf allowed himself an evil chuckle. “After the news of the Stormsword’s demise at Giant’s Gap, that’s the best damned news I’ve had all week.”

She choked on a mouthful of wine. “Sigdrifa’s dead?”

“Aye. They burned her yesterday.” Brynjolf selected a bottle of mead and lifted it into a toast. “To Ulfric and Sigdrifa. May their deaths be celebrated long into the night and Sovngarde be a complete disappointment to the pair of them.”

“Given that I suspect the dragon was Alduin World-Eater and the old stories say he feasts on the souls of the heroic dead, I imagine their arrival in Sovngarde will be rather unpleasant,” she said after a moment. “Here’s to hoping Alduin chokes on their rotten souls.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Brynjolf agreed cheerfully.

They did so and the brunette finished her second wine. “You mentioned more work,” she observed after putting the bottle on the table. “I don’t think I’m cut out to pick pockets. You saw how I handled the Brand-Shei business in the marketplace.”

“We’ve got better pickpockets and cutpurses, it’s true,” Brynjolf agreed. “But you’re light on your feet and good with an Unlock spell. Burglary and shill jobs might be more up your alley when it comes to the bread and butter work. As for special jobs…”

“I have Adept training in Alteration, Apprentice training in Destruction and Restoration, exactly two Illusion spells and I can summon a bird spirit in Conjuration,” she replied. “I’m probably as good an alchemist as any village herbwife or apprentice healer and I know the basics of enchantment. First and foremost, I know the Provincial Revenue Office like the back of my hand, how to forge most common Imperial documents, and a safe route under the Jeralls between Bruma and Falkreath.”

Vex whistled through her teeth. “ _Damn._ Though truth be told, I know about the Serpent’s Trail too.”

“If you’re who I think you were, I’m not surprised. I did some work with Neela-Tai in Bruma and she advised me to make for the face-sculptor if I ever got the chance,” the brunette answered. “Now that everyone will assume I’m dead at Helgen, I can build myself a nice nest egg and find somewhere more pleasant than Cyrodiil to live.”

“Hmm, yeah, I think Neela-Tai mentioned her friend in the tax office a couple times,” Vex confirmed. “Do you know Muffle and/or Invisibility? We’ve got a problem at Goldenglow Estate and I think it might be a two-person job thanks to those mercenaries that fetcher Aringoth hired.”

“I have Muffle,” the brunette told her. “And a couple Blizzard scrolls.”

Delvin, silent until now, stirred. “Vex, shouldn’t we start her off with something simple?”

“Fuck it. We’re bleeding coin, Maven’s breathing down our necks and Mercer’s tighter than a clam’s arse when it comes to hiring outside help,” Vex retorted. “Discretion went out the window when they nearly killed me. Now we make it clear that no one fucks with the Guild.”

“Aye,” Brynjolf agreed. “Spare Aringoth if you can, but make an example of the mercenaries… and set three of the beehives alight as a message.”

“I’m guessing this is Maven’s supply of honey for her mead,” the brunette mused.

“Aye, lass.”

“Do the bees feed from flowers that grow around the privy? It’d certainly explain the taste.”

Vex snickered. “Maven brews it from horker piss. Unless it’s the Reserve, which is flavoured with her own piss.”

“Give me a good wine any day of the week,” the brunette said fervently.

“Here’s to hoping Maven never hears any of this,” Delvin observed. “She’s stuck by us though our luck’s gone to shit.”

“Aye,” Brynjolf agreed with a sigh. “If you’re not careful, she could sic the Dark Brotherhood on to you, unless she decides to stuff you into a prison cell for the rest of the Fourth Era.”

The brunette’s smile was wry. “We won’t have any problems… unless someone wishes to carry tales?”

“She’s got ways of finding things out,” Delvin muttered.

“And I know for a fact she’s arranged three murders, hijacked two caravans and has been smuggling weapons to bandit groups across northern Cyrodiil and southern Skyrim,” she murmured. “Two can play the blackmail game if it comes to that.”

“Bryn might be right about you being our lucky charm,” Vex said. “So… what do you want us to call you?”

“Lia. Lia Storm-Shadow.”

“That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think, lass?” Brynjolf asked her.

“Perhaps, but it’s appropriate.” She wiped her hands on her ragged skirt. “Do you have a spare set of robes and access to an enchanting table? If nothing else, I need to put a Muffle enchantment on some boots to save my magicka for a fight.”

“Follow me,” Vex said. “I’ll set you up… but you’ll owe me.”

Lia shrugged. “Of course I will. Nothing ever comes for free unless you take it.”

Brynjolf smiled. She was going to fit right in.


	3. A Visit in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment and corpse desecration.

The Moot convened the day after his mother’s funeral and the first thing Bjarni announced was the confirmation of their father’s death by the loyal hearthman Ralof, who had been raised to huscarl to Ulfric’s eldest son. Cries of sorrow and grief echoed throughout the Great Hall as they mourned the Jarl’s death… and then with typical Eastmarcher pragmatism, they got underway with the business of choosing his successor.

Egil stood up before anyone else could speak. He knew that the traditionalist Thanes preferred him as a candidate, but the rigorous training of a Vigilant allowed him to take stock of his strength and weaknesses. Bjarni might be wild by their standards and far too friendly with the Dunmer in particular, but his big brother had the diplomatic skills both parents had lacked and the ability to keep the bigger picture at the forefront. This wasn’t about pride, not when dragons were roosting all over Skyrim and the Stormcloaks were vulnerable with the loss of their two senior leaders. It was about what was good for Eastmarch and Skyrim as a whole.

“I nominate Bjarni Ulfricsson for the Throne of Ysgramor,” he announced to the gathered crowd. “My brother is better at building alliances with non-Nords than I am and after Ralof gave us the report on Helgen yesterday, he quickly assessed the situation and identified that the dragon was likely Alduin World-Eater himself.”

Gasps of shock and horror ran through the crowd but fell silent when Egil held up his hand. “The understanding has always been that whichever brother didn’t inherit Eastmarch would become a candidate for the Stag Throne of Falkreath. The fight isn’t over; it’s only just begun. We will fight to liberate Skyrim as fiercely as our parents did.”

Hjalti Swiftrunner, the Thane of Keld-Nar, cleared his throat. “What about the dragons?”

Bjarni stood up, impressive in his warm ochre-gold garb and snowy bearskin cloak. “We have developed protocols to fight dragons. It’s just a matter of crippling their wings and then hacking the bastards apart. When the Last Dragonborn is revealed, we will assist them to the best of our ability.”

“What if they’re an Imperial?” Torsten Cruel-Sea asked.

“We’ll worry about that when it happens,” Bjarni answered. “But the days of assassination and sabotage are over. If I become Jarl, I will fight cleverly, but I won’t rely on assassins and dishonourable tactics. These may be the end of days, my friends, and in the end of days all Nords will fight to prove their last, best worth. I’m not my mother with a Shieldmaiden’s honour. I am Bjarni and I will treat everyone, no matter their race, with a Nord’s honour. For we are the First Men and we will lead the free peoples of Tamriel against their oppressors!”

“I’d prefer Egil on the Throne of Ysgramor,” Torbjorn Shatter-Shield said bluntly.

“You won’t be getting me,” Egil told him. “I’m going to Falkreath and that’s the end of it.”

There wasn’t much the Thanes could do after that, because Galmar had been a huscarl and while Ralof was respected, he wasn’t descended from the Stormcloak lineage but instead the Jarls of Whiterun. Bjarni was voted in and received the Wind Crown, a thin band of stalhrim set with ice diamonds that hadn’t been worn since the younger days of their grandfather Hoag.

“Thank you for your trust in me,” Bjarni said after Lortheim had crowned him. “I’ll keep things short and sweet because we have a lot to do and little time to do it in. My first act as Jarl is to recognise the free nations of Hammerfell and Orsinium, and to extend an invitation for both to send an ambassador to Windhelm. My second is to authorise my brother Egil to take his cavalry and five hundred men to reclaim Falkreath for the free Holds of Skyrim. My third is to invite the community leaders of the Grey Quarter and Argonian Assemblage to join my council of advisers. Does anyone else have any suggestions before I order the kegs broached to drink to the memory of my parents and all those lost at Giant’s Gap and Helgen?”

Egil wasn’t surprised no one had any and so the serious drinking began. He made the minimal amount of toasts before excusing himself, citing a wish to review the logistics of his Falkreath campaign.

It was while he was reviewing his mother’s papers that Astrid, garbed in her red and black, arrived in the Stormsword’s old office. “I’m sorry about your mother,” she said, breaking the silence and darkness alike.

Egil kept himself calm and refused to show his shock. Never show weakness around an enemy. “As are we all, for all her sins.”

“Galmar told you about her first marriage then.” Astrid sighed and took a seat without invitation. “Very stirring speech Bjarni gave in the Great Hall. How much of it is true?”

“All of it,” Egil told her candidly. “If payment is owed for your services, we’ll render it, but we’re not too likely to employ you anymore. Bjarni is right when he said it must be won in open battle.”

Astrid inclined her head. “Fair enough. Sigdrifa and I had laid most of the groundwork anyway. Why do you think she let Ulfric challenge Torygg so openly if they weren’t ready?”

“It’s late, I’m tired and mourning my mother, and I have a campaign to plan for Falkreath,” Egil said bluntly. “Why are you here, Astrid?”

“I paid my respects to your mother already. That was a nice touch to send some of the ashes to Yngvild,” Astrid said in her low poisoned-honey voice. “But, we just received some _interesting_ news about a job. I might be a Dark Sister, but I’m loyal to Skyrim, Egil.”

“Someone hired you to kill Tullius?” Egil asked in spite of himself.

“That’d be a ten thousand septim fee, minimum,” she said dryly. “Not because I wish to gouge you, but I’d need to kill Rikke, Hadvar and probably half the Imperial command in Skyrim to make it work.”

“I could field a battalion of cavalry and foot soldiers for that,” Egil told her.

“True. My way would cause less collateral damage though.” Astrid sighed. “I’m not here to sway you to my cause. Someone on the Elder Council’s offered us a very great deal of money to kill Titus Mede himself. We’ve taken the job, of course, but we may need some… assistance.”

She held up her hand as Egil opened his mouth to say no. “I will likely need a raid on Dragon Bridge, where the Penitus Oculatus are stationed. But that’s the future. What I need immediately is the Pale Pass to be blocked somehow. That will serve you as well.”

“We can take the forts on the Skyrim side, hold them and use magic to seal the gates,” Egil told her curtly. “But that’s for our purposes, not yours.”

“I understand,” Astrid said mildly. “You aren’t your mother, Talos rest her soul. But I think you’re more pragmatic than you allow yourself to admit.”

She rose to her feet with a smile. “Keep a close eye on your mother’s paperwork and the treasury. The Thieves Guild aren’t as patriotic as I am and one of its senior masters, Brynjolf, holds a very personal grudge – albeit with some justification as he was one of the Reacher children taken from Markarth – against your cause.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Egil asked. “I’d have thought you and the Guild would be bosom buddies.”

“Mercer’s ripped me off once too often,” she said sourly. “And Maven Black-Briar’s his chief backer. Whether we like it or not, the Empire may make use of them.”

She smiled again. “Good luck in Falkreath. I think you’ll find it easier to reclaim than you might think. Your mother already paid for it.”

Then she was gone and Egil felt obscurely dirty for being in her presence.


	4. Taking Care of Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, criminal acts, misogyny and mentions of corpse desecration, war crimes, genocide and child abuse.

The Goldenglow job had gone off without a hitch and on their return to the Ragged Flagon, Brynjolf shouted everyone a round of drinks to celebrate. Lia found herself giddy with more than wine and somewhere between Dirge telling her why he took that name and Delvin bursting into an incredibly obscene song that would make Sanguine blush, she found herself kissing Brynjolf, buoyed by the sense of freedom that a new face granted her. He was as competent a kisser as he was a con artist and to the raucous cheers of the others, they’d gone to one of the alcoves and proceeded to get to know each other quite intimately.

She awoke, Brynjolf a warm weight with one arm thrown over her, to the sound of Vekel’s broom scratching against the sewer-tavern’s rough stone floor. When she sat up, the Day Master was awake immediately, green eyes glittering warily before they softened. “Sorry, lass,” he apologised. “A wise Thief never sleeps soundly unless they’re in the Cistern.”

“Don’t be,” she assured him. “I understand.”

He sat up and handed her the plain black robe, scavenged from some hedge-mage, that Vex had found for her in the stores before they went to Goldenglow. Lia accepted it, shyly watching the lithe muscles of his torso and noting the whip scars on his back as he rose and donned his loincloth. She’d had those too before Galathil removed them. “What happened to you?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“Honorhall Orphanage,” he said bitterly after a moment’s silence. “My Da was a Reachman, my Ma a Nord, and when Ulfric and his damned Stormcloaks came to the Reach, they sent all the Reacher Nord children into the lowlands to become ‘real Nords’. That old hag Grelod the Kind tried to beat my brogue out of me, but it was all I had left of my family after Ulfric cut down my Da at the gates of Markarth and the Stormsword cut my Ma down at Karthwasten.”

“If there was anyone who was ever evil made incarnate, Sigdrifa Stormsword would be right up there with Jagar Tharn and the Mythic Dawn,” Lia agreed grimly. “What she did in the name of Talos…”

“I did recall you calling her the Shieldbitch,” Brynjolf noted. “What did she do to you?”

Lia studied him for a moment and decided to trust him. Brynjolf wasn’t the kind to betray a fellow Thief so long as they reciprocated. “The Stormsword didn’t go virgin to Ulfric’s bed. She was married to a Blade about ten years before the end of the Great War, and I was the result of that marriage. I was sickly and weak and not a very good Nord, so she went to Skyrim and left me to the mercy of the Empire, which had very little to spare after the failed Blades rebellion.”

“There were two men in the world who were daft enough to marry that bitch?” Brynjolf asked in soft surprise.

“My father committed adultery often and blatantly,” Lia said ruefully. “He was trying to get her to initiate the divorce for any number of reasons I won’t get into.”

“Aye, fair enough. I’ll keep it to myself, lass.” Brynjolf sighed explosively. “Doesn’t surprise me to know Sigdrifa was a liar. The things I found when I robbed the Palace of the Kings a few years ago…”

“I can imagine,” Lia noted.

“Aye, lass. She was good friends with Astrid of the Dark Brotherhood.” He offered Lia his hand to help her to her feet. “Pull on that robe and let’s talk to Tonilia. She should have tallied your share of the loot from Goldenglow by now.”

Tonilia was a slim, shrewd-eyed Redguard who wore the dust-grey sleeveless variant of the Guild armour and a couple pieces of modest but expensive jewellery. “Maybe now you two are fucking, Dirge will stop accusing me of cheating on Vekel,” she said dryly as they entered the storeroom where she worked.

“Dirge is an idiot,” Brynjolf said with a sigh as Lia flushed. “You’re on Day shift and you answer to me. No more, no less.”

“Amen.” Tonilia tapped her bottom lip with a hennaed finger thoughtfully. “Okay, Lia, I’ve got your cut. I subtracted what you owed Vex for the robe, boots and petty soul gem. Do you want coin or credit?”

“You get more worth from credit but coin can be spent immediately,” Brynjolf explained.

“I need better robes, preferably with powerful enchantments,” Lia answered. “These will do in a pinch, but if I’m going to be doing the burglary and shill jobs, I’ll need something that’ll boost my Alteration spells and reduce the cost of them. Somehow I don’t think the College of Winterhold is in my immediate future.”

“I’ll take that as credit then,” Tonilia said. “So, from the Goldenglow job, you earned three hundred septims in your share. I’ll get Rune to acquire some robes and enchant them; he’s our magic specialist. He’ll know what you need more than me.”

“Thanks,” Lia said gratefully.

“If I were you, I’d take bedlam, sweep, heist and shill jobs for now. Basically, Delvin will send you out to steal a set value of goods in a Hold in a bedlam job – and if you can get one in the same city as a heist or sweep job… You can kill a few birds with one stone,” Tonilia told her.

“Thanks,” Lia repeated.

“If we complete enough jobs in a city, we’ll have a bigwig approach us for something,” Brynjolf added with a smile. “Once that’s happened, we’ll control the Hold.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Brynjolf,” Tonilia advised. “We still need to re-establish our control of Riften. Haelga, Keerava and Bersi Honey-Hand have all refused to pay up.”

Brynjolf cursed under his breath. “After Goldenglow, I’d have thought…”

“Brand-Shei mouthing off about Maven has emboldened them,” Tonilia said with a sigh. “Even Mjoll the Lioness knows we’re having a run of bad luck.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t come down here and tried to kill us all,” Brynjolf said sourly.

“She lost a lot of confidence when she lost her sword Grimsever,” Tonilia observed. “But we better get those three to pay up or everyone else will tell us to go fuck ourselves.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Lia offered. “I’m sure they’re sensible people.”

Brynjolf’s expression brightened. “Aye, lass. Bersi’s got an ugly Dwemer urn he’s fond of, Haelga’s a devoted follower of Dibella and attached to her statue of the goddess, and Keerava is romantically linked with Talen-Jei. See if you can use that as leverage.”

After a wash and change of garb, Lia left the Ratway and entered the marketplace, wiping her hands on her skirts with nervousness. The Bee and Barb was the closest, so she went there first.

Talen-Jei regarded her sourly. “What do you want?”

“Talk some sense into Keerava,” Lia advised softly. “Brynjolf’s getting tetchy.”

He grimaced. “With the rumours going around about how poorly your Guild's been doing, she's become much too bold. I'm not that foolish. The last thing I want is a war with your people.”

“None of us do,” Lia admitted.

“Look, I'm only telling you this because I care for her. Don't mistake this as acceptance for what you do,” the Argonian continued. “Keerava has some family at a farm just inside Morrowind. If you mention you know about it, she might just listen to you. Just please, don't harm anyone. I couldn't bear the thought.”

“I have no intention of hurting anyone,” she promised.

“Now just go.” Talen-Jei returned to cleaning tables.

“Go away,” Keerava spat as Lia came up to the bar. “I’ve already told that buffoon that I'm not paying you people a single coin!”

“Then I’ll hop over the border to Morrowind and hit your family up for the debt instead,” Lia said with a shrug.

“How could you possibly know about... Please. My family means too much to me. Don't hurt them.” The Argonian’s eyes were wide with fear.

“I won’t. Just pay up, please. Neither of us wants to be unpleasant.”

“Very well. Here. Take this back to Brynjolf and tell him he'll have no more trouble from me,” Keerava said in resignation, handing over a small pouch of coin.

Bersi Honey-Hand ran a small business called the Pawned Prawn. “If it isn’t Brynjolf’s newest recruit,” the pawnbroker said flatly. “So, the Day Master doesn't even bother to show up himself anymore, eh? What's this message?”

Lia swiped the Dwemer urn from its shelf so that it smashed on the wooden floor. “Need I say more?”

“No! That urn was priceless!” Bersi was actually wringing his hands.

“Go to Markarth and buy another one. I hear they’re a septim a dozen there.” Lia held out her hand expectantly.

“All right! I get it. I'll pay on time from now on. Just don't smash anything else. Here, take your gold and leave me in peace.” He threw a small bag of coin at her.

The Bunkhouse was a workingman’s boarding house almost as rough as the place she’d called home in Bruma. “Here, take your damned coin!” Haelga, a pretty blonde wearing an Amulet of Dibella, said as she thrust a purse into Lia’s hands. “I hope Brynjolf chokes on it.”

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Lia said mildly, looking pointedly at the statue of Dibella. “I’d rather not desecrate holy objects if I can help it.”

“I hope you rot in Oblivion,” Haelga said bitterly.

Lia chose not to dignify that with an answer, so she left the Bunkhouse to return to the Ragged Flagon.

“You handled that well, lass,” Brynjolf said from the shadows cast by Honeyside.

“I used to work in a tax office,” she said wryly. “You learn how to extract coin from reluctant people very quickly.”

His mouth quirked to the side. “I imagine. Maven Black-Briar wants to see you.”

“Is this about me describing her mead as tasting like piss?”

He shook his head. “No. She’s got a job in Whiterun that’s not unlike the one you did at Goldenglow.”

Lia sighed. “I suppose I better not keep her waiting.”


	5. The Silence Has Been Broken

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, misogyny, criminal acts, child abuse and child abandonment.

…

“Ah, now you must be lost. Best ya scurry off while you're able. The Ratway, well, it has a habit of swallowin' up the uninvited,” rasped the shaven-headed rogue in silver-studded black leather armour as Rustem took a seat at his table.

“If you’re talking about the enthusiasts at the front door, they had an accident involving my naginata,” drawled the Redguard with a bright smile. “I hope they weren’t yours. They went from attempted robbery to attempted murder in about five seconds.”

“Nagin-. Holy fucking shit, are you that fella who turned Grelod into mincemeat a few weeks ago?” the Thief asked with widened eyes.

“One and the same. She reminded me of my ex-wife, only with more grey hair and less Talos.” Rustem leaned back in his seat and pulled the Elder Council amulet from his beltpouch, dangling the gold and amethyst gaud loosely from his fingers. “Name’s Rustem. Astrid sent me to cash this in with you.”

“Oh. Oh I see. Well now, how is Astrid doin' these days? Tell her to stop by some time. We can have a drink. Catch up. Ah, but we can discuss that later, yeah? What does the Brotherhood need?” The Thief, who had to be the Delvin mentioned by Astrid, was suddenly eager.

“Arnbjorn would object to that,” Rustem pointed out. “Before you ask, no, this didn’t come from an Elder Councillor I killed – though gods know I was sorely tempted because he’s a weasel-faced cunt whose tongue is callused from licking Elenwen’s boots – and it’s a down payment Astrid wants converted into credit.”

Delvin gave a short ugly laugh. “Yeah, I’ll buy it. Them amulets have the Councillor’s name on it. Someone’ll want that information, for certain.”

He scribbled out something on a bit of paper, thrusting it towards Rustem. “It's a letter of credit. Usable, by Astrid only, for any service or item I can provide. As per our standard arrangement. You bring that back to your lovely mistress. With my regards.”

“Hmm, I’d heard the Riften Guild was having some troubles,” Rustem mused as he dropped the amulet into Delvin’s eager hands. “I know Mercer screwed Astrid over on their last deal.”

“Astrid wanted us to steal some papers from Castle Dour,” Delvin answered. “Offered us the standard fee. Well, our infiltrator went through them papers and they were Imperial camp locations in the Old Holds. That’s political, my friend, and we have a one thousand-septim fee on top of the usual for a job like that.”

“Fair enough.” Rustem waved the barman over. “I’ll remind Astrid of that fact. But I do have a job for the Guild that’s personal.”

“Jailbreakin’s two thousand septims, framin’s five hundred, and information on a target’s two hundred,” Delvin answered immediately. “Plus that thousand I mentioned if it’s political.”

“What if I’m trying to find a family member who’s gone missing, and it may have been because of Imperial politics and/or the Stormcloak rebellion?” Rustem asked quietly as the barman handed him a bottle of Black-Briar mead. Given their ties to Maven, it was probably all that was on offer here. Pity. Black-Briar tasted like piss.

Delvin blew out an explosive breath. “That’s bloody awkward. Probably have to charge you an even two thousand, just to cover my bases.”

“I can afford it,” Rustem said shortly. “It’s to find my daughter. She disappeared from Bruma about two months ago. My family’s done a good job of irritating Mede over the past twenty years and thanks to the chaos of the Great War, my girl was left to bear the brunt of it by her bitch of a mother, who apparently went on to have a long career as Ulfric’s bride.”

The barman choked on a swig of mead. _“Sigdrifa Stormsword?”_

Delvin grimaced. “Comparin’ that woman to Grelod the Kind might be an insult to Grelod, and we believed that old bitch to be part-Hagraven.”

“I can’t say,” Rustem said mildly. “Is it doable?”

“Let me go get Brynjolf,” the barman said quickly.

“Better knock first,” Delvin said dryly. “Or Lia might throw a firebolt at ya.”

The barman went out the back and the Thief gave Rustem a rueful glance. “Want somethin’ a bit stronger than mead? I imagine you’ll want to toast Sigdrifa’s death with Brynjolf. The Shieldbitch, to quote our newest member Lia, killed his Ma and Ulfric killed his Da.”

Rustem’s eyebrows rose. “Astrid said he spoke with a Reacher brogue.”

“Yeah. Lia’s from Bruma, I think.” Delvin scratched his stubbled chin. “She told us she ain’t doin’ Night work, so she won’t help the Brotherhood, but she might have known your daughter.”

The barman returned with a slightly dishevelled Nord with long auburn hair and a compact brunette who looked vaguely familiar. “I told him you were from Bruma,” he said to the latter. “He’s looking for his daughter.”

She gave him a look and then a more intent one, her brown eyes narrowing. So this Lia knew who he was.

“Aurelia Callaina,” she said very clearly and precisely, “died at Helgen when the Keep collapsed under the dragon’s assault. There’s nothing to find, so don’t bother looking for a body.”

“You’re certain?” Rustem asked urgently.

“If the lass said she’s dead, your daughter’s dead,” Brynjolf answered with a slight edge to his voice. “Unless you’re questioning a member of the Guild?”

“No,” Rustem said slowly. “I suppose I owe you the two thousand, since you were the one who gave me the answers you were looking for.”

Lia turned away. “Give it to Delvin. You hired him.”

She walked back into the shadows without another word.

“Unusual weapon you wield, lad,” Brynjolf mused, that edge to his voice.

“Naginata – the Akaviri bladed spear,” Rustem told him. “I was a Blade, once.”

“I rather thought you had been.” Brynjolf gave Delvin and the barman a curt nod. “We need to get to Whiterun or Maven’s going to have our heads.”

“Don’t drink the mead there,” advised Delvin with a grin. “I hear it tastes like skeever.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll be improving the taste of it.” Brynjolf waved and disappeared.

“I guess you got your answer,” Delvin said, turning back to him. “Just like the Brotherhood, the Guild stands by its own. Lia’s our lucky charm and we’d be very put out if she was frightened away.”

“Let me know if anyone threatens her,” Rustem said in a soft voice as he paid up. “I’m not above a little freelance murder if someone’s being offensive.”

“Don’t let Astrid hear that. She doesn’t like her people thinkin’ for themselves.”

“So we’ll make sure she doesn’t.” Rustem rested his naginata across his shoulders. “Besides, _I’m_ the Listener now.”

Delvin grimaced. “The next few months will be interesting.”

“You have no idea, my roguish friend, no idea at all.”


	6. Dampened Spirits and a Dragon's Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, misogyny, slut-shaming and mentions of child abandonment and child abuse. Let the fun begin!

“Your Da has one of those punchable faces, doesn’t he?” Brynjolf asked as they left Riften.

Lia threw him a grateful smile. “Thank you for having my back. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if he pressed the issue.”

“Astrid would have set him straight. The Guild and Brotherhood have been business partners for centuries. Sometimes one of our more enthusiastic Guildmates needs somewhere to stay when a death’s involved and there’s times when the Brotherhood needs to offload some loot in a quick, discreet manner.”

“I’m guessing that most of the Night shift handle that sort of work?” Lia asked.

“Aye.” Brynjolf looked west and sighed. “Time to slog, lass. We don’t want the carriage driver to remember our names and faces if things go wrong at Honningbrew.”

“Don’t worry, Brynjolf,” she assured him. “Rune gave me the names and descriptions of some common herbs that ease pain and increase stamina. We’ll make great time.”

Thanks to chewing on the petals of the prolific purple mountain flower, they didn’t need to rest until they reached Ivarstead, the nearest village to Haemar’s Pass and the border of Falkreath. Wilhelm, the innkeeper, charged them ten septims for a shared room. “Watch the skies,” he advised. “There’s dragons about, they say.”

_Thanks, I’ve been trying to forget._ Helgen sometimes seemed like a nightmare brought on by the stories Esbern and Wulfgar told her as a child, compounded by the existential dread she endured as one of the Aurelii. But now she wore a different face and name, purchased by some creative looting of the ashen ruins, and that life was behind her. Let some hero of legend handle the dragons and any Blades that might pop out of the woodwork. She had wealth to win and a life to build.

The next morning they left Ivarstead and took the road through Haemar’s Pass. Judging by the churned muddy slush on the poorly kept cobblestoned road, a large number of horses had come through overnight. “Stormcloaks, probably Egil’s cavalry,” Brynjolf said tersely after plucking a scrap of blue-grey cloth from a snowberry bush. “He won’t bother two travellers if we keep to ourselves and don’t get curious.”

Lia knew that Sigdrifa had two sons with Ulfric, a boisterous bruiser named Bjarni and the stern half-priest Egil. “They’ve recovered quickly from Ulfric and Sigdrifa’s deaths,” she observed.

“I don’t think they were close to their parents. Galmar and Ralof did the bulk of their raising. As Stormcloaks go, they’re decent men.” Brynjolf tossed aside the scrap. “Let’s get going. I don’t want to be around any potential brawl.”

They skirted the ruins of Helgen, which still smoked several days later and were now inhabited by bandits who jeered at Brynjolf but did nothing else due to his black Guildmaster’s leathers. Lia supposed it was professional courtesy.

Next on the route to Whiterun was a cluster of three stones, each one etched with the mark of a Guardian birthsign. “The three Guardian Stones,” Brynjolf said with some satisfaction. “Warrior, Thief and Mage. It’s said you’ll gain the blessings of your chosen stars if you touch one.”

They both touched the Thief Stone, blue-white light outlining the constellation briefly before spearing the heavens above. “Well then, lass, our stars are with us! I knew you were our lucky charm.”

Lia surprised herself with a blush. “I’d say you’ve brought good luck to me, Brynjolf. I didn’t think of things beyond changing my face and escaping everything.”

“We’ve both been lucky,” he said quietly. “We better get going. I don’t want to run into Egil’s cavalry if they’re taking Falkreath.”

“You think that’s really going to happen?” Lia asked as they walked along the river.

“Bjarni won the Moot election. That means if Egil wants to be a Jarl, he needs to take Falkreath, because Sigdrifa was the old Jarl’s eldest daughter and her sons had a claim.” He gave her sideways glance. “Maybe if you’d waited a few days to change your face…”

“The Aurelii are interdicted; we can’t inherit or assume command of anything. I wasn’t even allowed to own my own shack back in Bruma,” Lia said flatly. “I suspect I’d been reassigned to Skyrim so Tullius could keep an eye on me – or use me as a weapon somehow.”

She looked towards the village in the distance. “But that’s behind me now. I have a future in the Guild. I intend to become very wealthy and retire somewhere like Stros M’kai.”

“It does have a good climate, fine rum and the benefits of being away from Stormcloaks _and_ Imperials,” Brynjolf mused thoughtfully. “Perhaps if things go as they are, I might join you.”

Lia smiled. “I could live with that.”

It was afternoon by the time they reached Riverwood, so they decided to overnight in the village and reach Honningbrew Meadery in the morning as to give themselves the whole day to work. The Sleeping Giant was an adequate inn, its blonde, sharp-faced Breton owner vaguely familiar and overly folksy and the barman surly to the point of rudeness. Forty septims got them a shared room, bowls of indifferent vegetable stew, and a few flagons of the house ale.

“Orgnar!” the innkeeper snapped after they’d paid up. “Orgnar, are you listening?”

“Hard not to,” Orgnar answered sardonically.

“The ale’s going bad. We need to get a new batch.” After Orgnar continued to ignore her, she snapped, “Did you hear me?”

“Yep. Ale’s going bad.”

“I guess you don’t have potatoes stuffed in your ears after all,” the innkeeper retorted.

“Forty septims for bad ale and a quarrelsome innkeeper,” Brynjolf muttered to Lia. “They should join the Guild, lass, because that’s highway robbery!”

“You can always keep walking to Whiterun,” the innkeeper told him.

“I’m not in the mood to provide a wolf with a late-night snack,” Brynjolf drawled. “I’d imagine between Helgen and the war, you’d be glad to have a couple guests, but apparently I was wrong.”

“I don’t like Thieves,” the innkeeper retorted bluntly. “If business wasn’t so slow, I’d run you out of town. But if anything goes missing in Riverwood, I’ll tell the hetwoman who stayed here.”

“Lumber’s a little too hard to carry, lass,” Brynjolf observed. “Believe me, there’s fuck all to steal around here.”

Orgnar laughed as the blonde went puce. “He’s got you there, Delphine.”

_Delphine’s still as charming as ever,_ Lia thought sourly. No wonder she was familiar. “Bryn, I’m going to sell those extra herbs to the general trader,” she murmured.

“I’ll join you, lass. It stinks like old socks and bad ale around here.”

Outside, Lia rolled her eyes heavenwards. “I know that woman,” she said in the Reachtongue, hoping that he remembered the language from his youth. “She’s a Blade who slept with my father.”

“Aye? I suppose if I got Sigdrifa Stormsword’s sloppy seconds, I’d be bitter too.” Brynjolf gave the inn the High Rock two-finger salute as Lia choked on a laugh. “Can you walk for the next few hours? I’d sooner camp in the fields than stay at that place. Forty septims! It’s a bloody rort.”

“If I lighten this pack, sure. I don’t want Delphine Revanche to recognise me.”

Lucan Valerius was only too happy to purchase her herbs and offered a couple hundred septims to retrieve a golden claw from Bleak Falls Barrow, the tomb overlooking the village. They exchanged looks and nodded; bandit camp would mean half the work was already done once the brigands were dead.

By the time they cleared out the bandits and the spider, they were bone-weary, so they retreated to the camp in the first chamber of the tomb, ate toasted bread and cheese, and fell asleep. It was more salubrious than staying at a bad inn run by the bitter ex-lover of Lia’s assassin father.

In the morning, Brynjolf studied the entrance thoughtfully. “If you don’t mind sneaking past draugr, there’s grave goods to be found in these old tombs,” he mused. “Shall we?”

“I thought Maven wanted the meadery handled as soon as possible,” Lia pointed out.

“Aye, but we’ve got a couple days’ leeway. Since we’re sneaking through, should take us half a day.”

“You’re the expert.”

There was rather more fighting than expected since the draugr were more vigilant than planned but most of them were brittle with age, falling apart under Brynjolf’s ebony daggers or Lia’s firebolts. The king-draugr was no picnic, to say the least, but it died too. Lia absently read the Word Wall, translated it, and thought nothing of its glowing Word.

They took the path back out the way they came, arriving in Riverwood by noon, and Lucan paid generously for both the golden claw and the grave goods. After that, it was time to go to Whiterun and sort out this Sabjorn.

Malus, Maven’s surly inside man, sent them to pose as adventurers who weren’t above a little skeever extermination. Sabjorn balked on paying upfront until Brynjolf, with a charming smile, threatened to tell the guards just outside about the skeevers. He handed them a couple hundred septims and told them to sort out the problem.

There were skeevers. There were skeevers with poison-dripping fangs. There were frostbite spiders. There was even a mad alchemist who’d created all the mutated skeevers. There was even enough viridi fungi to make for a nice bonus if sold to Elgrim or an alchemist in Whiterun.

Brynjolf dropped the rest of the rat poison into the mead keg that would be rolled out for the guard commander’s tasting. “I suppose once it’s shut down, Maven will reopen it for cheap,” he mused.

Lia sighed. “Pity we can’t hang onto Honningbrew and Goldenglow. Maven’s attitude pisses me off.”

“I’m not overly fond of herself, lass, but at the moment she’s our main source of work.” He swiped a few bottles of mead. “Let’s go watch the show so we know Malus can do his part.”

It went more or less as expected, Sabjorn protesting his innocence as Commander Caius marched him away, and after the show was over Malus rubbed his hands gleefully. “Just as planned,” he gloated. “Maven will pay you back in Riften.”

“I don’t suppose you’d mind if we helped ourselves to a few things from Sabjorn’s personal belongings?” Brynjolf asked. “Little curios, objets d’art, that kind of thing.”

Malus shrugged. “Only thing worth selling might be the decanter, but help yourself. Just don’t take any coin.”

They followed that rule to the letter. The silver bars, decanter, a couple gems, an expensive alchemy textbook and some interesting paperwork were acquired but not a septim was touched. Brynjolf even stuffed his pack full of Honningbrew mead on the way out, much to Lia’s amusement.

Dusk was falling over Whiterun when they left the meadery. “Pity Delvin didn’t have any jobs for around here,” Brynjolf said. “Whiterun’s a wealthy city.”

“There’ll be plenty of opportunity in the future,” she consoled. “Even in Bruma we heard about Balgruuf’s wealth.”

“Aye, he’s a wealthy-“ Brynjolf’s words were cut off by the sudden roar from the air.

“Dragon! We need to find shelter, now!” Lia yelled.

The dragon soared over to a watchtower to the west and belched out gouts of sooty flame that boded ill for the grassy plains. They bolted for someone’s grain mill, the nearest stone structure that wasn’t the city. Let the guards handle it.

But, judging by the screams and curses outside, the guards weren’t handling it at all. “Die, damn you!” yelled a female Dunmer. “Why won’t you just die?”

_“The Thu’um is like magic and is vulnerable to lightning,”_ Esbern once said. _“Take its breath before you can say it.”_

“Brynjolf,” Lia said in a high taut voice. “If we don’t do something, that thing will kill us.”

“Balgruuf’s men are some of the best in Skyrim and it’s eating them for breakfast!” he countered. “What in Lady Luck’s name can we do?”

“My father was a Blade and I think I remember more of the dragonlore than I thought,” Lia said, rising to her feet. “Lightning magic can drain a dragon’s power. They need a mage.”

“Brit grah! I had forgotten what fine sports mortals can provide,” laughed the beast.

“You know two lightning spells, lass!”

“I know Telekinesis. I can pick up boulders and throw them at his wings to cripple him.” Lia gave him a helpless glance. “I have to try. I don’t think it will leave until we’re all dead otherwise.”

Brynjolf swore long and low. “Then I’m coming out with you. If you can cripple the beast, I’ll cut its damned throat.”

Going outside to face the rampaging dragon was perhaps the most insane thing Lia had ever done. The western watchtower was now rubble, most of the guards in Whiterun’s saffron-gold were dead, and the only person standing appeared to be the Dunmer womer.

“You are brave. Bahlaan hokoron. Your defeat brings me honour,” the dragon said, landing on top of the ruined tower. “Krif krin. Pruzah!”

“Come down here and face the blades of Irileth, the bearer of the Moon-and-Star!” demanded the womer. “There are few who can slay me, dragon, and I doubt you’re among them!”

_That womer’s the_ Nerevarine? _No wonder she’s still alive!_ “Nerevarine, use lightning spells!” Lia yelled as she lifted a smouldering chunk of rock. “The Thu’um is magicka!”

“My overlord will devour your souls in Sovngarde, Nords,” the dragon said almost conversationally.

“Here’s to hoping the bastard chokes on Ulfric and Sigdrifa!” Brynjolf muttered before he faded into the shadows.

Irileth laughed. “One can hope.”

She threw a lightning spell at the dragon, who laughed it off and took the skies. Trembling with the effort, Lia threw the rock at its left wing and the fragile web of skin and bone that comprised it. It crumpled and the dragon landed face down in the tundra, leaving a broad gouge of rich dark earth.

Lia used the two scrolls of Fireball she’d picked up in Bleak Falls Barrow before the dragon could stagger to its feet, then drank a meagre magicka potion before lifting another rock and throwing it at the exposed throat, cutting off the beast in mid-Shout.

Irileth, in a display of acrobatics that would have done Lia’s uncle Irkand proud, landed on the dragon’s back and began to drive her sword in and out of its spine like a worker digging a fence post. The dragon roared in agony and tried to dance away, but Brynjolf came out of the shadows and jammed his ebony daggers into the sides of that long serpentine throat where the veins should be before tearing them out in a bloody spray.

“Dovahkiin? Niid!” The dragon died in despair and horror, its last cry one of hopeless damnation.

Irileth closed her eyes, visibly throttling her anger as they approached. “I wish you’d arrived sooner,” she said flatly. “We could have saved some good men.”

Lia had fallen to her knees in exhaustion, utterly drained from the day. Dimly, she realised that the dragon’s flesh was burning away in sooty black chunks edged with orange flame, leaving only a bleached skeleton behind. “Pardon us for assuming you had it in hand when we’re not sellswords.”

Irileth sighed. “Balgruuf will pay for their funerals. I wish-“

“Lass,” Brynjolf said, his green eyes wide, “You’re glowing!”

Lia tasted iron and copper as she stared at her olive-bronze hands, the veins and arteries lit up with light that shone red through her flesh. _Mirmulnir_ , the dragon was called, sent to retrieve the soul of Numiinax the dovah who failed and was chained like a pet. His powers were hers now, his soul filling the Word ‘Fus’ with meaning and the taste of force on her tongue-

“What the actual _fuck_?” she asked before toppling into unconsciousness.


	7. An Offer of Assistance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing, Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, genocide, war crimes, child abuse and child abandonment. Playing slightly with the looks of the Soul Sword from Elder Scrolls: Redguard for story purposes.

“Cirroc! Welcome to Windhelm!”

Bjarni sat up in the Throne of Ysgramor as Ralof clasped the forearms of a whip-wiry Redguard youth with every sign of friendship. Clad in the red and purple robes, embossed brown leather breastplate and blue burnoose of an Alik’r warrior, his ochre-brown hands bore complex maroon tattoos all over them and a single dotted line of similar ink ran from ear to ear across his face. The curved sword hanging from his sash was narrower and straighter than the typical scimitar, instead almost resembling the Akaviri katana, and its golden hilt was set with a deep purple-black gemstone that looked uncomfortably like a black soul gem.

“I thought the Imperials took your sword for spoils,” Ralof continued as they stepped apart.

“They _tried_ ,” Cirroc answered in a deep, resonant baritone that was almost familiar. “But my sword isn’t conducive to being wielded by infidel hands, as the Legate Secundus of Falkreath Hold found out the hard way. It contains the soul of the second-greatest Crown who ever lived and Prince A’Tor has no love for the Empire in _any_ form.”

“Aren’t you a Forebear though?” Ralof asked in some confusion.

“My status as a Sword-Saint puts me above factional distinctions,” Cirroc told him.

Galmar blew out an explosive breath. “Praise Talos your mother’s in Sovngarde,” he muttered into Bjarni’s ear. “That can only be Rustem Aurelius’ second child Cirroc. He’s the Redguard equivalent of a Shieldmaiden, a warrior-monk who follows their martial traditions, and is reported to be the best duelist in eastern Hammerfell.”

Bjarni immediately rose to his feet and stepped off the dais, earning a shocked gasp from Jorleif. “Ralof tells me you kept him alive in Helgen,” he said to the younger man.

“Given he pulled me off the headsman’s block when the dragon attacked, I’d say we’re even,” Cirroc replied mildly. “I’m sorry about your father. Ulfric was an honourable warrior who died well by anyone’s standards.”

“My mother too is in Sovngarde,” Bjarni said bluntly. “I was recently briefed as to the history she shared with your father.”

“My father is a repeated breaker of marriage vows and women’s hearts,” Cirroc agreed candidly. “My mother needed him as a stud, not as any sort of a consort, and that’s probably why they get along so well.”

“Safiya’s pragmatism is known even here,” Bjarni agreed with a sigh. “If you wish wergild for my mother’s actions against your family, have your mother’s steward contact mine and we’ll figure it out. I would bury any ancient grudges with my parents, not continue them in the face of dangerous mutual enemies.”

Cirroc spread his hands. “Grandfather’s still biding his time. But I came here to offer some assistance in between my mission of hunting down Redguard traitors who infest your lands like ticks on a dog. I am a notable duelist and a first-rank Sword-Saint.”

“Give us names and we might be able to save you the work,” growled Galmar.

“I appreciate the offer but these are deeds I must complete myself – I’ve sworn by the Soul Sword to see it done,” Cirroc said with a bow of his head.

Bjarni nodded to the personal quarters. “We need to talk in private.”

In his mother’s old office, after he’d poured them some mead, Bjarni got to the point. “I presume you know we have a sister in common?”

“Callaina.” Cirroc’s expression was regretful. “My father sent word that she died at Helgen.”

“You’re certain? Was it the Imperials?” Bjarni demanded.

“It was Alduin. She died crushed beneath stones, he was told by an agent of the Thieves’ Guild.” Cirroc held up a hand before Bjarni could speak. “My father is touched by Satakal, who you call Sithis. The Empire killed the Children of Satakal three years ago and he’s joined the Dark Brotherhood for vengeance and a purpose. The Guild is many things, but not stupid enough to deceive a group of assassins.”

“Fuck,” Bjarni swore, blinking back tears. “I wanted… My mother…”

“My father tried to have her adopted through proxies but every one was blocked by agents of the Elder Council,” Cirroc said grimly. “I’ll reserve judgement on what Sigdrifa did or didn’t do. We, I think, would have understood each other quite well. Like your mother, I am wed to the sword.”

“Must make your life simple,” Galmar said sadly. “I long only to join Ulfric, but I promised I’d see Skyrim free first.”

“My life is complex in other ways.” Cirroc shrugged slightly. “Hammerfell will wait until Skyrim proves itself worthy of its freedom – like taking a Hold or two in battle – before lending more than encouragement. It’s the Redguard way. We’ll help you win a battle but we won’t win it for you… and you need to prove yourself first.”

Bjarni nodded, wiping away his tears. “Will Beroc mind you’re here?”

“My grandfather trained with the Sword-Saints. He understands our honour transcends politics.” Cirroc smiled wryly. “I offered to lend the Dragonborn a hand in slaying dragons but she told me, in no uncertain terms, to piss off. If her Voice is as sharp as her tongue, I don’t think she’ll need much help there.”

“Praise the gods. If there was no Dragonborn, it would be the end of days,” Bjarni said fervently. “What was she like?”

“In the words of the Alik’r, she might not be a Redguard but there’s Yokudan in her.” Cirroc pursed his lips. “She’s no hero. She and her partner only got involved in the fight against the dragon in Whiterun’s fields because they couldn’t hide or outrun the beast. Pragmatic of her, though the Companions were greatly disappointed. If I hadn’t been apprehending a traitor and handing her over to the Alik’r, I’d have gladly tested my blade against a dragon like Sura-HoonDing did with the red dragon Nafalilargus for the soul of Prince A’Tor.”

“Does she support the Empire?” Galmar asked urgently.

“No, but there’s no love for the Stormcloaks either. I get the impression her lover Brynjolf was a survivor of the Markarth Incident.” Cirroc tilted his head. “Your parents have left you a difficult legacy to bear.”

“As have yours,” Bjarni pointed out, earning a wry smile from the Redguard.

“Indeed. Let us put aside the quarrels of the past. We have an Empire to destroy and a sister to avenge. I know where there’s an Imperial camp under the command of some Legate with the manners of a horker.” Cirroc’s smile was wintry. “A few duels here and there and the Imperial command structure in the Old Holds will collapse.”

“So you’re not above assassination like your father?” Galmar asked.

“They won’t be assassinations. I’ll challenge them openly on the battlefield after the Stormcloaks attack their camp. It’ll be a fair fight… theoretically.” Cirroc’s smile deepened. “I am an _excellent_ duelist and few Imperial Legates can match me.”

Galmar chuckled evilly. “You think almost like a Nord.”

“And you show an almost-Redguard pragmatism,” Cirroc answered. “Shall we destroy the Empire together?”

“Yes,” Bjarni said softly. “For our nations… but first and foremost, for our sister. The Empire will lament they ever knew her name by the time we are through with them.”


	8. Seven Thousand Steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of child abuse, corpse desecration and war crimes.

“Am I destined to run into every bloody relative I’ve never wanted to know or care about since I changed my face?” Lia asked Brynjolf with some exasperation in Reachtongue as they left Whiterun. “First my father, now my brother! Soon you’ll find me in Windhelm speaking to Bjarni and Egil!”

The redhead smiled ruefully. “Your luck does seem to be a bit two-edged, lass. Will we be going straight to High Hrothgar?”

“Yes. What’s the point of becoming rich and returning the Guild to its former glory if Alduin swallows us all?”

He nodded. “Aye. That dragon was bad enough and you say Alduin’s ten times worse. The Guild’s going to have a lot on its plate.”

“Mercer will drop everything to fight the dragons?” Lia asked sceptically.

“He’d be stupid if he doesn’t help you, lass. We’re not heroes of legend but we’ve all seen those Word Walls around Skyrim.” Brynjolf smiled wryly. “I hope there’s a more practical Shout than that pushing one you use.”

“Dragonborn can breathe fire, call storms…” Lia sighed. “I wish Esbern was alive. The old coot was the Blades dragonlore specialist.”

“Old, Reacher Nord, cracked?” Brynjolf asked in some surprise.

“Yes…” She gave him a glance. “You know where he is.”

“Aye. He rents a room from us in the Ratway Vaults.”

“Well, I know where we’re going after High Hrothgar then.”

“My Thane,” said their pack-mule about ten paces behind them, “May I ask what you were saying? I can’t speak… whatever that was.”

“Reachtongue,” Lia said over her shoulder. “Bryn and I have Reacher granmas. We were just discussing our next destination and course of action. I apologise, Lydia.”

The huscarl shrugged. “I’ll keep that in mind. Uncle Balgruuf and I know you’re with the Thieves’ Guild. Their armour can be quite distinctive.”

“And he still made me a Thane?” Lia asked in disbelief.

Lydia snorted. “Even if you were to rob Dragonsreach blind, having the Dragonborn as a deterrent would be cheaper than fielding enough guards to defend Whiterun against Tullius, Bjarni _and_ Alduin.”

Brynjolf laughed shortly. “Never knew your uncle was a skinflint, lass.”

“He’s frugal. More so with Avenicci as Steward.” Lydia nodded up at the mountain looming over them. “So I assume it’s High Hrothgar?”

“Yes. Then a scholar who lives in Riften.” Lia sighed. “I won’t abuse my power as Thane by doing Guild work in Whiterun. I can’t promise my friends won’t do the same, but I, personally, won’t.”

“That’s the best we can hope for.”

The bandits at Helgen were gone, replaced by grim-faced Stormcloaks who manned the ruined walls, and Haemar’s Pass was quiet. “Bold of the Stormcloaks,” Lydia noted as she looked over her shoulder. “If they manage to take Falkreath-“

“Egil’s a competent commander. I imagine Siddgeir’s a head on a pike by now,” Brynjolf observed.

“Better Egil than Dengeir. Dengeir was senile at best.”

The rest of the trip to Ivarstead was quiet but for encountering a Khajiit caravan on the way, who were happy to trade the fancy gifts from Whiterun for more practical items like potions and herbs. They overnighted at the Vilemyr Inn again and on the morrow, climbed the winding seven thousand septims to High Hrothgar. Lia wondered what the folks down below would think of the wildlife she Shouted off the path. Raining wolves and sabre cats didn’t happen every day after all.

High Hrothgar was a grim grey fortress just below the actual peak. Lia left the salted fish Klimmek had given them at the foot of the mountain and took the stairs two at a time. The Greybeards would have conniptions on discovering she was a Thief with Blades ancestry.

“So... a Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age,” observed the ancient elder with bright blue eyes and a Colovian nose on her entrance.

“If you have any complaints, register them with Akatosh, because it wasn’t _my_ idea,” Lia answered sourly.

“It usually isn’t,” the old man noted dryly. “We will see if you truly have the gift. Show us, Dragonborn. Let us taste of your Voice-“

Lia Shouted some of the pots clustered at the foot of a pillar as three more Greybeards filed in.

“Dragonborn. It _is_ you. Welcome to High Hrothgar,” he said, his voice much warmer. “I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards. Now, tell me, Dragonborn, why have you come here?”

“Lia Storm-Shadow,” she replied. “I’m here because Akatosh decided to make me Dragonborn, no doubt over the objections of the other Divines.”

One of the Greybeards snorted in amusement, the sound a crack of thunder in the enclosed space, and even the others smirked.

“I see,” Arngeir said dubiously. “I trust your Thief friend won’t rob us blind?”

Lia looked over her shoulder to see Brynjolf and Lydia coming into the light. “Don’t worry, we won’t steal anything – unless it’s a dragon-killing weapon. Those dragons are bad for business.”

“I’m guessing you don’t consider yourself a hero of legend,” Arngeir observed.

“I’m _descended_ from heroes of legend. All it got my ancestors was glorious deaths with a side order of lunacy,” Lia told him bluntly. “The sooner I send Alduin on his way, the sooner I can return to a nice normal life.”

“Kynareth preserve us,” Arngeir said fervently.

Two days of training followed, culminated by learning a Shout that propelled her several yards like a Dwemer automaton and being sent to desecrate the tomb of the Greybeards’ founder Jurgen Windcaller. The return to Ivarstead was a huge relief and since they were closer to Riften than Hjaalmarch (“weird bog place full of weird bog people” to quote Lydia), Lia decided they should return home and consult with Esbern.

_Pity a return to Cyrodiil is off the cards,_ she thought sourly as they left the village, _because going into the Temple of the One and screaming at the ghost of Martin Septim would be awfully cathartic right now…_


	9. Esbern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, criminal acts and mentions of war crimes, religious conflict, imprisonment and child abuse.

“So what you’re tellin’ us is that Akatosh gave you a Guild contract to steal dragon souls from Alduin and is payin’ you in Shouts?” Delvin asked Lia after they’d told him what happened at Whiterun and High Hrothgar.

“That sounds a lot better than the legacy of my heroically moronic relatives coming back to haunt me,” Lia said ruefully, earning a laugh from the Breton. “My allegiance is to the Guild, Delvin. I have no intentions of changing that. But I may be a little busy for the next few months.”

“Don’t worry. Most of the Guild have extracurricular activities on the side,” Vex observed. “But are you sure you can rely on Esbern? The man’s always rambling about the end of the world.”

Brynjolf watched Lia inhale and exhale slowly. “I won’t get too much into my family history because I changed my face for a reason, but I’m descended from Blades. Esbern was the greatest scholar of dragonlore among them for generations. Since there’s no more Dragonguard or Blades, I need him, cracked as he is.”

“I’ll fetch him,” offered the albino Cyrod. “These dragons are already cutting into our profits.”

When she was gone, Brynjolf arched an eyebrow at Delvin. “What did I miss when I was gone?”

“The person who bought Goldenglow was funding Honningbrew,” reported the Night Master. “Maven’s pissed and is demanding the deeds to both properties. Balgruuf apparently cock-blocked her attempt at buying the latter legally.”

“I know,” Lia said smugly. “Because it was liquidated for negligence by the previous owner, Balgruuf was able to gift it to one of his Thanes in return for twenty percent of the profits for the first five years. Perfectly legal under Imperial law and not dissimilar to the ancient Nord custom of a Jarl gifting land to a worthy vassal.”

“You didn’t,” Delvin said after a moment’s silence. “The job was-“

“To sabotage Sabjorn’s ownership and disrupt Honningbrew’s market share, which we did,” Lia finished calmly. “Maven forgets that outside of the Rift, she’s honestly got fuck-all influence, and Balgruuf’s always one to thumb his nose at the woman.”

She held up a hand as Delvin opened his mouth. “The Jarl made the call, because the other option was me buying a little house called Breezehome. A meadery that runs itself will be of more use to me than real estate I won’t even be able to rent out.”

“Maven will explode,” Brynjolf said worriedly. “She might call the Brotherhood on you.”

Delvin laughed. “But guess who the new Listener is?”

“Rustem Aurelius obeying orders? There’s something I never thought I’d see,” Lia said sardonically. “What does Mercer have to say about it all?”

“Apparently the purchase and fundin’ was funnelled through Solitude by everyone’s favourite slimy lizard Gulum-Ei,” Delvin answered with a grimace. “Since you’ve proven yourself so effective, you’re to handle the situation with Brynjolf.”

“I’ve no objection to it, but what about the Day shift?” Brynjolf pointed out.

“Honestly? I think we should let Sapphire have a crack at running things for the next few weeks,” Delvin suggested. “We’ve got proof there’s an active enemy out there trying to sabotage the Guild. That’s bigger than sellin’ snake-oil in the marketplace.”

“Aye, I suppose so,” Brynjolf fretted. “But we need to find some magic horn before Lia gets taught more by the Greybeards.”

“If I remember my map of Skyrim correctly, Ustengrav is on the way to Solitude,” she pointed out. “We can pick up the horn on the way through.”

Vex returned with a shabby-looking Nord with rheumy eyes. “You can’t do anything to stop them,” he insisted to the albino Cyrod. “The gods have abandoned us.”

“Esbern, we haven’t been abandoned,” Lia told him gently. “I’m Lia Storm-Shadow, the Dragonborn.”

“What's that you said? Dragonborn? Then... there really is hope after all?” The old man’s gaze lit up. “’Storm-Shadow’… A little melodramatic. You sound like you’re from Bruma.”

“I am,” Lia confirmed. “I’ve made contact with the Greybeards and I will need the lore of the Blades too. You swore an oath once to obey the Dragonborn, Esbern. Will you keep that oath even in the face of damnation?”

“I will,” swore Esbern, tears trickling down his seamed cheeks. “Now and forever.”

“Good. Now, I’ll be frank. I’m a Thief and I see no reason to change that allegiance since I was planning for a well-funded retirement,” Lia told him crisply. “I have some property in Whiterun I can put you in until we find something a little better than a meadery.”

“What about the Thalmor?” Esbern asked in a quavering voice.

“I suspect, the way the Stormcloaks are going, they’ll have bigger problems… but I strongly suggest keeping your Talos worship to yourself. You do no one good in a Thalmor torture chamber.” Lia rubbed her upturned nose. “We’ll be going to Whiterun tomorrow. I need to go to Ustengrav and then Solitude on some business.”

“You’ll likely hear from any remnant Blades at Ustengrav,” Esbern warned. “That’s where we were meant to make contact with the Dragonborn. Assuming the Thalmor haven’t killed them all.”

“I’ll worry about that then.” Lia rose to her feet with a long slow stretch. “Get some rest. Tomorrow will be a hard day.”

Brynjolf followed her into the cistern. “I hope you know what you’re doing, lass.”

“So do I, honestly,” she admitted. “I suspect it’ll be Delphine who makes contact. She was always a ruthless paranoid fanatic. Kind of like my mother, really.”

“Your father certainly had a type,” Brynjolf observed.

“Tell me about it.” She sighed. “I wish someone else had been given the job.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Lass, having met a few members of your family, I think you were the best choice.”

“That says volumes about my family.”

“It doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”


	10. A Visit to the Jarl's Court

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, criminal acts, war crimes, religious conflict, imprisonment and child abandonment.

_“Dragonborn--I need to speak to you. Urgently. Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you. --A friend.”_

Lia swore in as many languages as she knew after reading the note placed where the horn should be. Esbern was right. Delphine _had_ made contact and she’d attempted to force the Dragonborn’s hand. Well, _this_ Dragonborn wouldn’t be dancing to Delphine’s tune. It wouldn’t be hard to find and locate the horn with her magic, then have Brynjolf or Vex just acquire the bloody thing for her.

“I’m guessing Delphine’s pulled a fast one on you, lass?” Brynjolf asked gently.

“She’s _tried_ ,” Lia said flatly. “We’re burglarising the Sleeping Giant Inn on the way back to Riften. Fuck her and her games.”

“From everything you’ve said about Delphine and her life choices, I’d pass,” Lydia, who preferred women, observed dryly.

Brynjolf grinned as Lia was startled into a sour laugh. “You have no idea, Lydia. Truly, half of the Stormsword’s issues can be laid at Delphine’s feet. The other half came from her being a Shieldmaiden.”

She tossed the note away. Hjaalmarch had been far more exciting than she’d planned what with the attempted vampiric takeover of Morthal and the draugr-infested Ustengrav but the real work awaited them in Solitude and the impending confrontation with Gulum-Ei. “We’re about a half-day’s walk from Solitude. Do we spend another night in Morthal or walk to Dragon’s Bridge?”

“Morthal,” Brynjolf said. “Rune told me the Penitus Oculatus have an office in Dragon’s Bridge.”

“Another night in the bog it is.”

The next morning, they left Morthal in the steel-grey light of predawn and cut across the bogs to the road that led to Solitude. “We need to figure out how to handle Gulum-Ei,” mused Brynjolf. “He’s as trustworthy as a clipped coin.”

“You’re better at talking than I am,” Lia admitted. “But why are we handling him with kid gloves?”

“Because he’s a factor in the East Empire Trade Company,” Brynjolf told her. “We get our hands on all sorts of goodies through him.”

“Don’t tell my uncle that,” Lydia said amusedly. “He might ask you to get a few things for him.”

“We’re always happy to do business,” Brynjolf said cheerfully. “I’ll even give him a ten percent discount if he looks the other way concerning certain irregularities in the taxation records.”

“Avenicci does the books, sadly,” Lydia told him with a laugh.

Lia rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Goldenglow Meadery’s really underutilised,” she observed. “I could set up a minor trade company that would allow us to sell the more expensive but less traceable items openly. We’ll pay the appropriate taxes to Balgruuf – with the odd gift – and make pots of money doing it.”

“You certainly lived in Cyrodiil,” Lydia said wryly.

“There’s quick profit in rendering dragons down to their component parts or looting a warehouse, but I want something sustainable for when I retire,” Lia pointed out. “I know all the tricks; I just never had the capital.”

“If the Stormcloaks are on the rise, they may object to it,” Brynjolf mused.

“Bjarni’s apparently got more common sense than either of his parents ever had.” Lia suddenly smiled. “If I can undercut the Black-Briars, Shatter-Shields and Silver-Bloods, I’ll have the monopoly on mead, shipping and mining in Skyrim. War can be made on more than just a battlefield. Cyrodiil’s been doing it for years.”

“Let’s sort out whoever’s trying to undermine the Guild first before we make plans for the future,” Brynjolf advised. “But it’s good to see you’re thinking in the long term, lass. The Guild needs more people like that.”

Gulum-Ei was as slippery as an oiled snake but between Lia and Brynjolf, they were able to pin him down and get a few answers. He promised more if they acquired the crate of Emberbrand wine in the Blue Palace and met with him down at the docks. Lia decided to polish off the etiquette class Sister Mercy had given everyone at the Imperial Workhouse, go to Radiant Raiment for suitable garb, and deliver Falk Firebeard’s rum to him personally with Lydia in tow.

“If you're heading to the Blue Palace, you might want to rethink that outfit,” remarked the Altmer in blue cotton brocade as Lia entered the shop.

“That’s why I’m here,” Lia drawled, eyes flickering across the bolts of fabric from all over Tamriel.

“You're really going to the Blue Palace? That presents an opportunity,” the Altmer answered in some surprise. “If you were willing to wear one of Radiant Raiment's outfits and speak to the Jarl I would not only pay you but let you keep the outfit.”

“She’s not much to look at,” remarked the other Altmer snidely in Altmeris.

“All the better,” Lia said coolly in the same language. “If you can make a drab sparrow like me a bird of paradise, you’ll make Elisif fairer than the goddess Dibella Herself.”

“I see you are an educated woman,” the first Altmer said mildly. “So… I’m thinking warm autumn colours as summer’s coming to an end. What do you think?”

Two hours later, garbed in billowing saffron cotton robes that were tied close at the wrists and ankles with scarlet cords and caught around the waist with a beaded sea-glass belt, Lia made her way to the Blue Palace with rum in hand, Lydia at her side and Brynjolf tailing them to acquire the wine. The sisters Taarie and Endarie had exquisite taste, choosing a somewhat Redguard flair to her garments and warm tones that suited her skin and brown eyes. She was actually enjoying being treated as someone worthy of notice and respect.

Elisif the Fair was a delicate redhead with the rosy-fair complexion of Reacher blood and eyes reddened from weeping. She promised the mayor of Dragon Bridge help with the haunted cave and once the man was dismissed, her blue eyes immediately sought out Lia and Lydia. Falk Firebeard, another Reacher Nord, cleared his throat. “Welcome to the court,” he said, tilting his head in enquiry.

“Lia Storm-Shadow, Thane of Whiterun, and her huscarl Lydia Istgeirsdottir,” Lia answered calmly. “Blessings of left and right to the court of Elisif mac Carador.”

Falk’s eyes widened. “Dragonborn! Welcome to the Blue Palace.”

“I see my reputation precedes me,” Lia said ruefully.

“How can it not?” It was Elisif who spoke. “But… Storm-Shadow? That can’t be your real surname.”

“It is now,” Lia said serenely. “Calling myself ‘Stormcrown’ would be a bit ostentatious, as I’m a woman who prefers discretion in my work. I’m a trader usually. Why Akatosh chose me to be Dragonborn, I have no idea.”

“But… Storm-Shadow? Do you support the Stormcloaks?” Elisif asked with a slight edge to her voice.

“I couldn’t honestly give a damn who rules Skyrim,” Lia admitted candidly. “Every Nord who dies heroically only feeds the power of Alduin World-Eater, so your bloody civil war makes my job all the harder. I stopped by as a courtesy call, Jarl Elisif, not to get into politics. My surname is a reference to my Akaviri ancestors, who served the last Dragonborn with distinction.”

One of the Thanes, a brown-haired woman, laughed softly. “Your honesty commends you, Dragonborn.”

“Oh.” Elisif wilted. “So you wouldn’t aid the Legion?”

“Not if I can help it. If it’s any consolation, I’m not bloody likely to help the Stormcloaks either. Neither side’s endeared themselves to me.”

The Jarl sighed. “I suppose no one can force you to do anything.”

“Not really,” Lia said gently. “Given that the last Dragonborn was something of an all-conquering prick, you should probably thank the gods I’m not interested in politics. One Talos was enough.”

“I’ll take whatever blessings I can,” Elisif agreed with another sigh. “For what it’s worth, you have exquisite taste in clothing. Who’s your tailor?”

“Taarie and Endarie at Radiant Raiment,” Lia told her. “Fashion can be a weapon. Even I know that.”

Somehow, she agreed to check out Wolfskull Cave on the way home, if only because it never hurt to have the Jarl of Solitude on her side. But first, Gulum-Ei. Lia very much wanted to have the East Empire Trade Company by the short and curlies.


	11. Sympathies for the Stormsword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, war crimes, religious conflict and criminal acts.

“One less Legate in Skyrim,” Ralof said cheerfully as Cirroc wiped the Soul Sword on the dead Cyrod’s cloak. “Once we deal with the draugr, the Jagged Crown will be ours.”

“What’s the significance of this Jagged Crown?” the duelist asked, sheathing his sword.

“’Maw unleashing razor snow, of dragons from the blue brought down, births the walking winter's woe, the High King in his Jagged Crown’,” Galmar explained. “Going way back to King Harald's time or even before, the High King always wore the Jagged Crown. It was the symbol of his might and power. The crown is made from the bones and teeth of ancient dragons, and it is said to contain a portion of the power of every king who has worn it. True or not, who would dare deny Bjarni's claim, when the legendary Jagged Crown sits upon his brow?”

“Ah! Much like the Soul Sword is a sacred symbol to the Redguards, though more of our desire to make way over the infidel than a relic of rulership,” Cirroc mused. “Is that why you also had me retrieve Queen Freydis’ sword from Anvilsund when I was executing Lu’ah al-Skaven?”

“Yeah,” Ralof confirmed. “King Borgas’ draugr will be a pain in the arse though, so be prepared.”

The draugr were, as Ralof put it, a pain in the arse but once Cirroc unleashed the Soul Sword to deal with Borgas while he and the Stormcloaks put down the dead king’s two huscarls, A’Tor’s ghost did the bulk of the work. Cirroc wondered if he was the only one to see the spirit of a compactly muscular warrior with a square jaw who wore the bright saffron, scarlet and purple of an ancient Crown Prince of the na-Totambu. Given how superstitious the Old Hold Nords could be, perhaps it was for the best.

After they’d done looting the place, with a studious Stormcloak making a charcoal rubbing of the Word Wall, Cirroc wiped the Soul Sword clean with a quiet thank you. A’Tor was a proud man who’d chosen to forego the Far Shores to protect his people for eternity; woe betide the Sword-Saint who took his grace for granted, because A’Tor would take their head.

“You act as if that sword is sentient,” Galmar observed.

“It is.” Cirroc pursed his lips. “I’ll tell you the story if you like, but I must be honest when I say it paints your Talos as a real prick who relied on treachery to overthrow the Crowns during the Tiber War.”

“We have no illusions about our gods,” Ralof answered. “Wasn’t your Sura-HoonDing a pirate or something?”

“Yes.” Cirroc sheathed the Soul Sword. “Tiber Septim came along to conquer Hammerfell in the last years of the Second Era. I think it was about a decade or so before Barenziah became the Queen of Mournhold. The timing’s always a little funny when we go from one Era to the next.”

“Matches with our histories,” Galmar said.

“Well, Prince A’Tor was a brilliant commander, but his attention was divided because the leaders of the Ra Gada – the Forebears – were more interested in victory and political dominance than the unity of our country.” Cirroc turned over King Borgas with his foot to see if the looting Stormcloaks had missed anything. “The Forebears betrayed the Crowns and offered allegiance to Tiber Septim in return for support. Even so, A’Tor put up one hell of a fight until Tiber’s commander sent a Dunmer assassin to murder and soul trap the Prince. Things went downhill from there and soon we were dominated by Lord Richton – who destroyed the resistance, sent A’Tor’s soul gem to be guarded by Talos’ pet dragon Nafalilargus and sold the soul of Iszara, one of my ancestors and a Crown loyalist of Stros M’kai, to Clavicus Vile.”

Cirroc sighed as the Nords gasped. “My father once told me that before Hjalti Early-Beard became Tiber Septim, he was a reasonably honourable albeit typically brutal Nord warlord. But when he rolled into Bruma at the command of Culhecain and met the masterless Akaviri-blooded Dragonguard, precursors of the Blades, they corrupted each other. A man with a dragon’s soul should never have minions who will commit atrocities at his command without a pang of conscience.”

“Ulfric once said something similar,” Ralof said quietly.

“To make a long story short, Cyrus the Restless – who would become Sura-HoonDing, Avatar of the Make-Way God and our version of Talos – got wind of what happened to his sister, returned to Stros M’kai and quickly ruined the days of Richton, Nafalilargus and pretty much anyone responsible for betraying Hammerfell. The priests of Tu’whacca had preserved Prince A’Tor’s body – if we can retrieve a soul gem containing the deceased’s soul and certain magics have kept the flesh alive and intact, they can achieve a resurrection by the grace of the god – but A’Tor commanded them to set the soul gem into his personal sword so that he could defend Hammerfell forever.”

Cirroc spread his hands. “After that, Hammerfell remained in the Empire, but Talos recognised the might of the Ra Gada and made Iszara the governor of Stros M’kai, the Redguards equal to the Nords in his esteem, and gave us a place of honour in his armies. There’s more stories of Sura-HoonDing, like how he bluffed Vivec in the ruins of Yokuda-that-was and won a duel against Talos on the latter’s ascension to Aetherius as an Avatar of Shor, but until we were betrayed by the Medes, we stayed in Talos’ Empire because he’d _earned_ the right to rule us after Sura-HoonDing’s chastisement.”

“Can’t fault a man taking exception to Talos’ servants mistreating his people,” Galmar conceded.

“The Redguards acknowledge Talos’ divinity,” Cirroc agreed. “We may not _like_ Him, but He’s a god.”

They finished up at Korvanjund and went to Heljarchen to overnight before Ralof and Galmar would take the Jagged Crown to Bjarni on the morrow. Cirroc was surprised to see his father there, talking pleasantly with an Orc whose accent was more refined than those from the strongholds about food and wine, of all things. His braids had been tied back into a ponytail and instead of his famous naginata, Rustem wielded his backup weapon of an Orcish greatsword, forged by the relatives of Aurelia Northstar in Orsinium. So it was Ralof and Galmar missed who the warrior truly was.

“Excuse me for a few hours?” Cirroc asked the two Nords. “That man talking to the Orc is one of my grandfather’s couriers and I’d like to send a report that I’ve dealt with Lu’ah al-Skaven.”

“Go ahead,” Galmar said cheerfully. “Maybe we’ll have done enough to impress Beroc.”

Cirroc chuckled. “Take another Hold or two and he’ll be impressed.”

“We’re working on it,” Galmar assured him.

An hour later, after Rustem had killed the Orc, Cirroc approached him as the warrior used Alteration to stuff him into the mountainside. One way to dispose of a body, he supposed. “Father,” he said quietly. “I see you’ve been busy. What did that Orc do to piss off Astrid?”

“He was the Gourmet,” Rustem said with a sigh. “We’ve found a way to penetrate Mede’s security.”

“Astrid told Egil you’d been hired to kill the Emperor,” Cirroc said. “Sigdrifa’s children are rather sensible and decent people. Bjarni wants to tear the Empire apart for what happened to Callaina though.”

“I could like that boy,” Rustem agreed with a bleak smile. “Have you got Iman and Lu’ah yet?”

“Yes,” Cirroc said with pardonable pride. “I’m currently lending a hand to the Stormcloaks by duelling offending Legates and champions. I thought Cyrods trained their soldiers than that.”

“Cyrods, particularly Legionaries, are taught to fight in a group,” Rustem answered, accepting the bottle of beer Cirroc handed him and popping the cork. “When you fight one on their own, they tend to be less adept in comparison to a warrior-monk like yourself. What will you do now?”

“I offered to lend a hand with the dragons but the Dragonborn told me to piss off – her actual words, mind you – and refused to speak to me any further,” Cirroc told him with a sigh. “Lia Storm-Shadow – what the hell kind of name is that – and her lover aren’t great fighters.”

“They’re Thieves,” Rustem said tersely. “And Lia… well, she’s got her reasons to refuse aid. The Dragonborn are a proud lot and she’s essentially had her family legacy shoved in her face after she went to great lengths to cover her tracks. Leave her alone, Cirroc, and try to keep the Stormcloaks off her back.”

“She’s a bastard of yours, isn’t she?” Cirroc asked.

“No, her parents were married,” Rustem said dryly. “You’re smarter than you look. Figure it out.”

He swilled down his ale and handed the bottle back to Cirroc. “I’ll brief Beroc. Keep what you know about Lia to yourself if you can. Bjarni’s a decent kid, but he’s got the subtlety of an avalanche. Lia won’t thank either of us if the Legion realises who she was.”

Before Cirroc could respond, his father was gone, and the Sword-Saint allowed himself a few pungent curses. How the hell was he going to stop Bjarni from figuring things out? Bjarni was intelligent. Typical of Rustem to leave the cleaning up to him.

_I find myself in sympathies with the Stormsword,_ Cirroc thought ruefully as he walked back to the Nightgate Inn. _Father never really did believe much in putting effort into anything he didn’t want to._


	12. A Friendly Warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of war crimes, religious conflict and torture.

“I will return!”

Potema’s voice echoed throughout the cavern as the magic of her summoning faded. Lia leaned over the side of the tower and vomited in disgust. Dealing with a batshit lateral ancestor hadn’t been on her to-do list in… well… ever. The Wolf Queen only proved that the Aurelii’s insanity didn’t all come from Aurelia Northstar.

“Can we pick a fight with a couple dragons next time?” Brynjolf asked seriously. “Or maybe sneak through the East Empire Trade Company’s warehouse again.”

Lydia grimaced. “I’ll take the dragons too, thanks.”

Lia pushed back her hair. “We better tell Falk Firebeard. This was bigger than I realised.”

“Necromancers have been popping up everywhere since the civil war began,” Brynjolf said grimly. “Mostly in the Old Holds, but Hjaalmarch has a few and now this lot.”

“Lovely.” Lia pulled the lever to bring the bridge down. “Let’s take what’s valuable and leave this place.”

It was early evening by the time they returned to Solitude and after a sleepless night haunted by nightmares of necromancers and other horrors, Lia rose by herself and went to the Blue Palace just as dawn was breaking. She was just past Proudspire Manor when a resonant baritone called out, “Dragonborn!”

“What?” Lia asked ungraciously as she turned to face the speaker.

The Redguard was ancient, his receding hair snow-white and his muscles stringy under quilted woollen robes of amber, scarlet and night-blue, but his stance warned Lia he was still adept with the nimcha hanging from a broad sash at his waist. Despite her surly response, his brown eyes were amused and friendly.

“You look very much like my grandson Cirroc, if you two had shared a mother instead of a father,” he said in a low wry tone. “Easy – I have no intention of revealing things you’d prefer to keep to yourself.”

Lia pinched the bridge of her nose. “What do you want? I need to tell Falk Firebeard something before returning to Riften.”

“The Wolfskull Cave business? My chaplain refused to come closer than the Statue of Meridia because of the dark stirrings there and he’s one of the best priests of Tu’whacca in eastern Hammerfell.” The old man pursed his lips. “You might want to keep your head low or stay in the Old Holds for the next few weeks, Dragonborn. Certain things are coming to a head and knowing Rustem, it will be… explosive.”

“Has Rustem ever given a shit beyond his own personal satisfaction?” Lia asked bitterly.

“On occasion. If you need assistance, I’ve commanded all Alik’r to lend a hand. I know the Prophecy of the Last Dragonborn too.” His smile was gentle. “You may not be Redguard but there’s Yokudan in you.”

“Again, what do you want?” Lia repeated.

“The world not to end would be a start,” the Redguard said dryly. “But heed my warning, Dragonborn. Go back to the Old Holds and stay there for the next few weeks. You’ll know why soon enough.”

“Thank you,” she said with a little more politeness.

“Thank you, Dragonborn. Prophecy is a terrible burden to bear, I imagine.” He bowed and went back inside.

Falk Firebeard was having breakfast when Lia approached him in the Blue Palace. “Potema!” he said in disbelief. “You’re certain?”

“They were calling on the Wolf Queen before we interrupted their ritual,” Lia confirmed. “But, gods willing, it’s sorted out.”

“You’ve done us a great service, Dragonborn. Have you considered buying property in Solitude?”

“I’m already Thane of Whiterun. We wouldn’t want divided allegiances at so awkward a time,” Lia said softly. “Balgruuf might be the most sensible Jarl in Skyrim at the moment.”

“He’s just waiting for someone to bribe him,” Falk said sourly. “But as you will, Dragonborn.”

She made her farewells and returned to the Winking Skeever, where Brynjolf and Lydia were packing up. “We’re crossing into the Pale,” she said tersely. “I just got told it would be a good idea to get to the Old Holds because things are about to get interesting in Haafingar according to some old Redguard.”

“Beroc,” Brynjolf identified. “The Hammerfell Ambassador.”

Lia swore softly. “Those damned fools. Well, it can’t be helped. We’re taking a boat to Dawnstar and we’ll cut through the Pale. I need to speak to Esbern at the meadery anyway.”

At the docks, her worst fears were confirmed when she saw the _Katariah_ moored in the harbour. A fisherman and his son were happy to take them to Dawnstar for a hundred septims and soon, they were sailing along the Sea of Ghosts.

“You didn’t rob someone, did you?” Lydia asked wryly.

“No. That boat with the red sails? That’s the Emperor’s personal bloody craft,” Lia said grimly. “The Brotherhood’s going to make an attempt on Mede’s life soon and the Redguards are mixed in it somehow.”

“Fuck,” Lydia swore.

“My feelings exactly.” Lia gave Solitude a filthy glare. “I won’t weep if that old bastard dies, believe me. But those idiots aren’t thinking of the bigger picture. Gods of left and right fucking damn it!”

“What’s so bad about that cunt Mede getting killed?” the fisherman asked. “He sold out Talos to keep his throne.”

“The Aldmeri Dominion will have a field day,” Lia said grimly. “If this civil war drags on, only the Thalmor will win. I lived in Bruma. I know what they’ll do to humanity given the first chance.”

“Are you saying the Stormcloaks are in the right, lass?” Brynjolf asked soberly.

“I think they’re morons. But Bjarni isn’t his parents.” Lia pushed back her hair with trembling hands. “I don’t want to get involved in the civil war. But the Legion’s about to be hit with a massive blow to their morale. It might be better in the short term to support the Stormcloaks and have those damned blackcoats thrown out of Skyrim. They taught Ulfric his cruelty, Brynjolf. They took an idealistic Greybeard apprentice and made him a monster by torturing him to the breaking point.”

Brynjolf closed his eyes. “You know I hate the Stormcloaks, lass.”

“I know. My granma’s Catriona, remember?” Lia sighed. “We’ve got a long boat ride to figure it out. Gods have mercy on our souls… because the Thalmor would have none.”


	13. To Kill An Empire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of religious conflict, war crimes, torture and imprisonment. Thanks to dovahgriin for letting me discuss a few plot points.

The plan went swimmingly… until Nazir, surrounded by Penitus Oculatus agents as Commander Gaius Maro ranted angrily about the death of his son, realised they’d been played and the ‘Emperor’ was a decoy selected from one of Mede’s many moronic cousins.

He might have died then and there but while Astrid threw all her eggs into one basket, Rustem was otherwise, and the Listener brought a Dunmer mercenary named Jenassa and the gods-damned jester Cicero with him like the cavalry in a fairy tale. One swing of the ex-Blade’s naginata scattered the clustered Penitus Oculatus soldiers with a blast of fire and force while Jenassa’s bow sang its twangy song of death and Cicero’s mad glee cut down the two battlemages. “Rustem!” spat Maro, drawing his sword. “I’ll gut you like a hog!”

“Bring it, bastard son of a bastard Emperor who isn’t worth the shit on Martin Septim’s shoe,” Rustem taunted.

Maro snarled with rage and charged, Rustem stepping to the side and swiping left with his naginata. The momentum of Maro’s charge meant that his bisected torso skidded to a halt almost at Nazir’s feet, his eyes and mouth working in horror before he succumbed to the horrendous wound. “Kill them all,” Rustem ordered tersely.

It was an order Nazir was pleased to obey and when none but the Dark Brotherhood remained on the bridge overlooking the dark streets of Solitude, Rustem spat on Maro’s carcass before decapitating it. “Let’s go,” he said. “We need to be in the Pale by dawn.”

It was a long cold slog through the bogs of Hjaalmarch after the boat they’d stolen at the docks hit the rocky shores of the Sea of Ghosts. “I thought Astrid told you to kill Cicero,” Nazir panted as they clambered up towards the snowy hills.

“Cicero’s loyal to the Night Mother,” Rustem said, not even winded. For a man in his early sixties, he was in good shape – better shape than Nazir, in fact. “I won’t kill a man for that. We’ve got a new Sanctuary in the Pale – rather nice little manor in fact. I’m a Thane of the Pale.”

“I don’t know what… went wrong.” Nazir halted, looking over his shoulder at the lights of Solitude. “It should have worked!”

“Mede’s a paranoid son of a bitch and Motierre’s just stupid enough to give himself away ten times over.” Rustem peered through the pines. “Fuck it, we’re taking shelter with the Stormcloaks. Maro’s head should give us a warm welcome.”

The Stormcloak camp was nearby, sheltered in a small valley surrounded by forested hills, and two Nords in the elaborate bearskin armour of commanders came at the sentry’s soft call. “Rustem fucking Aurelius,” grated the old grey-haired one. “You’ve got balls to walk into a Stormcloak camp.”

Rustem threw Maro’s head at the man’s feet. “The Emperor had a decoy, but we got to kill one of his obnoxious cousins and his bastard son Maro. That’s a cousin, his son and grandson dead so far.”

“Any dead Mede’s a good one,” remarked the other commander, a dark-haired man. “Were you being followed?”

“Not that we’re aware of. There’s a lot of dead Penitus Oculatus agents though,” Rustem answered with a grimace. “I wouldn’t normally seek out your hospitality, Galmar, but we won’t reach our Sanctuary before dawn – not unless we want to freeze to death.”

The grey-haired warrior grunted. “Fine. But only because you gave me a Mede’s head.”

“Put it on Ulfric’s grave. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the gesture in Sovngarde.”

It was a tense few hours and none of the Brotherhood slept easily. But the sun was westering when Rustem got them out of the borrowed bedrolls for the rest of the trip to Dawnstar. Nazir accepted a bowl of dubious glop from the camp cook as Rustem and Galmar exchanged a few final words.

“Get word to Beroc,” he told the huscarl. “This went tits up because of Mede’s paranoia and Tullius might want to blame the Redguards when it was the Thalmor who gave Motierre the money.”

“I will. Your boy’s done us quite a few favours.” Galmar sighed gustily. “I’m sorry about your daughter, Rustem. Callaina deserved better than she got.”

“She did,” Rustem agreed. “I’m sorry about Ulfric. He was the kind of man I’d have liked if he hadn’t been married to the Shieldbitch.”

“If it wasn’t for the politics, he wouldn’t have touched Sigdrifa with a ten-foot barge pole,” Galmar agreed ruefully. “Or perhaps it would be easier to say she wouldn’t have touched him.”

They clasped forearms. “This isn’t over,” Rustem promised. “Mede’s only got a stay of execution.”

“Now Maro’s dead, he might call your brother in,” Galmar said soberly.

“So? In a straight fight, I’m a better fighter than Irkand. Most of his skill relies on stealth.” Rustem’s smile was wintry. “Since I know he’s coming, it won’t be a surprise.”

“Talos guide your weapon,” Galmar said.

“Good luck taking Morthal. Maybe Idgrod won’t see it coming.”

Galmar snickered. “I guarantee she won’t.”

The others quickly finished their breakfast and left the camp. Even Cicero was subdued after last night and the silence was blessed.

It was close to midnight when they reached the Dawnstar Sanctuary. Dusty and unused, it was still better than camping in the snow, and the clams they’d collected on the seashore provided a meagre meal. “Nazir, you need to tell Astrid we were anticipated,” Rustem finally said after they’d drunk the last of the wine pilfered from a nearby camp. “The Falkreath Sanctuary may need to relocate to the Old Holds.”

“There’s no ‘may’ about it,” Nazir conceded. “The Imperial Holds are going to be unpleasant – and even though Falkreath is in the hands of the Stormcloaks, Egil Ulfricsson wouldn’t piss on us if we were on fire.”

“Tell Astrid I’ll keep us malcontents in the north so we don’t need to irritate her,” Rustem continued, warming his hands over the fire. “I don’t want to undermine her authority as Speaker of her Sanctuary. But she really can’t order the Listener around either.”

“She’s not stupid,” Nazir pointed out.

“No, she is just a disrespectful-“ Cicero began, only to fall silent when Rustem gave him a pointed look.

“We’ll go to Riften,” Nazir mused. “Mercer’s still pissed with us but if we wave a few septims in his face, he’ll get over it.”

“Delvin told me that the extra ‘fee’ was standard when politics were involved,” Rustem observed. “Astrid might also want to keep in mind that the Dragonborn is a Thief. Even a baby Dragonborn can wreak a lot of havoc if pissed off… and Lia’s got about twenty-five years of rage simmering under the surface.”

Nazir wasn’t an idiot. “I thought your daughter was dead.”

Rustem smiled ruefully. “She stole the Legion’s tax chest from Helgen after Alduin turned it into a smoking ruin and paid for a new face. I imagine she wasn’t thrilled to discover that her dragon blood came out after she’d gone to great lengths to cover her tracks.”

“So those stories about the Aurelii are true?”

“Yes. There wasn’t actually just a ‘Sword of the Septims’. The Blades smiths forged a whole damn arsenal of Akaviri weapons blood-sealed to the Septims. I wield the naginata, Sigdrifa took the broken katana from Cloud Ruler Temple, and Irkand wielded the wazikashis.” Rustem sighed. “None of us expected to live in a time of prophecy.”

“We’ll get Mede,” Nazir promised. “Old bastard can’t live forever.”

“Oh, he won’t,” Rustem agreed softly. “And if Irkand gets in his way, he can join the old prick in the Void.”


	14. Reluctant Allies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, war crimes, religious conflict and child abandonment. Remember how I said things were gonna suck? Well, it starts here for the Guild.

Lia’s decision to support the Stormcloaks, however reluctantly, drove a wedge between her and Brynjolf. She understood why, given his parents had been murdered by her mother and stepfather, just as Brynjolf understood why she sought out the Stormcloaks. But that understanding didn’t bridge the divide that had sprung up, forcing them to share different bedrolls now. She missed the warmth and companionship. Yet she couldn’t figure out how to bring it back.

The discovery on reaching Dawnstar and finding out that her father couldn’t even get _one_ thing right, rendering her decision potentially pointless, was enough to hone the edge of a temper already riled. They encountered Rustem, a Dunmer womer, a man in a jester’s outfit of all the damned things and another Redguard in red and black Alik’r robes just outside the old Dawnstar Sanctuary. Yesterday, the news of the botched assassination reached Dawnstar’s pub. Even Skald was disgusted with the Dark Brotherhood’s incompetence.

“One thing,” Lia hissed on seeing her father. “One thing. Just once, in the name of the gods of left and right, I’d like to see you get _one fucking thing_ right!”

The jester went for his ebony dagger but was waved down by Rustem. “Astrid and Motierre made the plan,” he told her. “Believe me, if I’d had more control of it, it’d likely be done more competently.”

“I’m guessing you’d be the Dragonborn?” the other Redguard asked in an Alik’r-accented tenor.

“I am. That _idiot_ you call a Listener is my father,” Lia answered tersely.

The Redguard smiled thinly. “If Rustem didn’t have a backup plan, I’d be dead.”

“Nazir,” Brynjolf greeted warily. “I see Astrid’s control freak tendencies got the better of her.”

Nazir sighed. “Probably. Or Mede’s paranoia anticipated an attempt.”

“You know security’s going to be ramped up. You better get back to Falkreath before the Legion does. It’s no secret where the Sanctuary is, lad.”

“I know.” Nazir sighed again. “We need to relocate. Is Mercer still pissed? Riften is looking like our best option because having Rustem, Cicero and Astrid in the same location is a bad idea.”

Lydia cleared her throat. “Should I be listening to this?”

“I don’t know,” Lia admitted candidly. “I suppose it depends on where Balgruuf decides to give his allegiance.”

“If you’re going to support the Stormcloaks, he’ll probably back you,” Lydia mused. “But since the Brotherhood managed to screw up the assassination-“

“Mede has a stay of execution,” Rustem interrupted. “I know the bastard’s on the _Katariah_.”

“And he’ll call on Uncle Irkand to protect him,” Lia countered. “Is killing Mede really worth going after your own brother?”

Rustem’s blue eyes glittered. “He chose the Empire, Lia. He’s no brother of mine. Besides, you’re considering joining the Stormcloaks.”

“Only because half the chaos can be laid at the Thalmor’s door,” she answered. “They’re the ultimate enemy. Killing Mede serves their purposes.”

“Of course it does. That’s why I’m counting on the Stormcloaks to wipe out the goldskins before they can take advantage of it.” Rustem tilted his head. “Shouldn’t your concern be the dragons?”

“How can I focus on the dragons when I’m related to the biggest fuckwits in Tamriel?” Lia asked acidly.

Nazir sighed. “Look, we need to get moving. Brynjolf, can we count on Mercer being okay with us living in the Rift?”

“Aye, I suppose so as long you keep your shit off our doorstep,” Brynjolf said reluctantly.

“Believe me, no one will see us coming.”

Lia swore long and low. “We might as well return to Riften. Mercer needs to know what Gulum-Ei told us.”

“Aye. ‘Where it all began’. I’ve got a bad feeling about this, lass.” Brynjolf sighed himself. “If it’s who I think it is, we’re in deep trouble.”

“Nothing a Shout can’t fix. Maybe while we attend to our own affairs, the political situation will stabilise.”

“Maybe,” Brynjolf said dubiously.

“The enemy isn’t who you think it is,” Rustem said suddenly. “They’re much, much closer to home.”

“Oh, you know Karliah then?” Brynjolf asked testily.

“No. That’s just what the Night Mother told me.” Rustem’s smile was thin. “Sithis is the father of all darkness, even that of the Thieves. Trust in the shadows and you will prevail.”

“And if we don’t?”

“The world itself will fall.”

…

“I can tell you now Rustem didn’t have much of a hand in it,” Irkand said slowly. “It would have been done _competently_ otherwise.”

“Yes, Astrid is rather sloppy,” agreed Elenwen smoothly. “I thought Shieldmaidens were more competent than that.”

“She was a failed Shieldmaiden,” Rikke said flatly.

“What matters is we have a common interest in getting rid of both the Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood,” Elenwen said calmly. “None of us particularly like each other. But none of us want the Empire destabilised either.”

“I thought the Empire bleeding out through Skyrim was the Thalmor endgame,” Irkand countered bluntly.

“A Skyrim ruled by Ulfric and Sigdrifa would have served the Dominion’s purposes by giving everyone a united target to hate,” Elenwen admitted candidly. “A Skyrim ruled by Bjarni or Egil Ulfricsson is another matter entirely. Both of the Stormspawn are highly competent despite their youth, with few of their parents’ flaws and a good deal more diplomacy, charisma and empathy. A free Skyrim under one of those two would probably reform the Septim Empire within ten or twenty years by our calculations.”

“Egil has empathy?” Rikke asked in some surprise.

“Compared to his mother, he’s a paragon of tact and diplomacy,” Elenwen said dryly.

“Compared to Sigdrifa, _I’m_ a diplomat,” Irkand agreed dryly.

“Astrid isn’t stupid. She’ll take her people and retreat to the Old Holds. Probably the Rift, because they already have a working relationship with the Guild. Which is why we need to destroy both,” Rikke said.

“I’ve already got agents in the town,” Elenwen said mildly. “We found out there’s at least one Blade in the area – Esbern, the loremaster. I think we can all agree that his knowledge of the beasts is necessary.”

“Hand him over to us,” Irkand said quietly. “He was never robust and your treatment of him will hasten his demise.”

“I can do that,” Elenwen agreed gently. “On the understanding that he’ll be executed as a Talos worshipper when you have the information you need.”

Irkand closed his eyes and nodded. “At least if we do it, it’ll be quick.”

“I know he was a friend. This wretched war has taken many of our loved ones from us,” Elenwen said softly.

Irkand nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and mourned the necessity of working with Elenwen. But his loyalty to the Empire demanded it and without loyalty, Irkand had nothing.


	15. Red in the Ratway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, criminal acts and mentions of imprisonment, torture, religious conflict, war crimes, child abuse and child death.

“If you cooperate, you won’t be hurt.”

“We both know that’s a lie,” Vex spat at the Altmer in the gold-trimmed black robes of a Thalmor Justicar. They’d come to the Ragged Flagon in force, the smoking corpse of Dirge testament to this one’s sorcerous skills, demanding the surrender of Esbern and the Dragonborn. “But what you want isn’t here anyway.”

“You’re going to die anyway,” the agent said pleasantly. “How quick or how slow depends on your cooperation.”

Vex closed her eyes. She’d fled the Blades after they plucked her from the Imperial Workhouse and trained her as an infiltrator, leaving everything she’d known behind. The Guild wasn’t much these days – but it was all she had. Ironic that in the shadows she’d found something worth dying for.

“Go fuck yourself,” she said clearly, resigning herself to a painful death. All she could do was buy her Guildmates time to flee deeper into the Ratway.

“I will, after I use your soul to-ack!” The Thalmor’s taunt was choked off by a death rattle.

She opened her eyes to see a motley collection of people ranging from a sweet-faced blonde in red-and-black leathers to a very pissed-off Lia with pupils that blazed red-green in the firelight. “Astrid, Lia? What the _fuck_ -?”

“Can you fight?” Brynjolf asked tersely. “There’s more of the bastards.”

“They’re looking for Esbern and Lia,” Vex told them, looting the Thalmor of his daggers.

“They’ll get me,” promised the Dragonborn in a low wrathful rumble. “This time I’m not a little girl trapped in the rubble.”

“Stick to the shadows,” Brynjolf ordered. “That’s our strength, not theirs.”

“Can they fight?” Vex asked, realising that Astrid, the Argonian and Gabrielle wore bandages.

“We can,” the Speaker said flatly.

What followed was nothing short of horror. The Thalmor had found the secret entrance to the cistern and taken most of the Guild by surprise. Delvin, Cynric and Galathil were dead, the others were wounded, and Mercer couldn’t be found. Vex choked back a shocked sob at the state of her Guildmates.

Lia moved among them, hands glowing golden, and Gabrielle collected herself enough to aid her. Brynjolf and Rune administered what healing potions they had while Astrid waited impatiently by the ladder. “Can we spare the time?” she demanded.

“Leave the wounded by the wayside if they’re not useful? How very Shieldmaiden of you,” Lia observed acidly as she helped Sapphire to her feet. “If you hadn’t fucked up-“

“I didn’t anticipate Mede realising we’d make an attempt!” Astrid snapped in response.

“Given the amount of people who hated the old bastard’s arse, not to mention the fact that between my uncle and Rikke, the Elder Council’s probably aware of how many ways someone can die… You should have expected it.” Lia handed Sapphire a sword. “I want those who are too wounded to take refuge in the Benevolence of Mara. Even the Thalmor won’t push their luck in the Old Holds by executing people in a temple.”

“We need to find Mercer,” Brynjolf said worriedly.

“We need to kill the Thalmor first!” Astrid snarled. “Then go to Dragon Bridge and burn the Penitus Oculatus’ outpost to the ground, then find Mede and kill him very, very slowly for what he did to Falkreath.”

“We lost Arnbjorn, Festus and Babette,” Gabrielle said grimly. “Nazir sent us a mage-message to come to Riften and then went silent.”

“He’s with my father, Jenassa and Cicero,” Lia said curtly. “Whoever’s fit to fight, come with me. The Thalmor want blood and ruin… they’ll get it.”

“Your _father_?” Astrid demanded.

“Tall, thinks he’s the gods’ gift to women, listens to the corpse of a Dunmer,” was Lia’s terse answer. “We don’t have time for this, Astrid, so shut up and do what you’re told.”

Astrid went puce but wisely remained silent.

They entered the Ratway Vaults and even from here, Vex could hear the cries and screams of the most desperate denizens of Riften as the Thalmor killed them. Where was Mercer? Had the Thalmor taken him for questioning?

They found the Thalmor in front of Esbern’s former home, some picking through the old man’s extensive book collection and others amusing themselves by torturing the mad. Vex and Astrid killed the two in armour almost immediately but the mages immediately cast Rune spells everywhere, golden hands glowing with arcane energies.

“FUS RO!” Lia roared, the force of the Shout knocking two of the mages over Rune spells that promptly exploded, killing one and severely wounding the other. The other two sneered, one of them beginning to swing his arms around with great contrails of energy coming from his hands-

“Blizzard spell! Find cover!” Gabrielle yelled urgently. They scattered but it wasn’t enough when the biting ice-cold winds, laden with pellets of ice, began to blow.

Vex watched helplessly as Lia pushed her way through the wind, hair and body whitened by hoarfrost, her own hands glowing with magicka. The mage who’d cast Blizzard laughed. “Do you think you can survive this, Dragonborn?” he sneered.

“My mother used to make me stand in blizzards like this all the time,” Lia said tonelessly. “This is mother-warmth to the children of Kyne, elf. What would one from the balmy shores of Alinor know of cold and ice?”

Against all the odds, she reached the mage, grabbing him and casting Sparks so that his body convulsed. The other mage went to cast a spell but a black-fletched ebony arrow sprouted from his eye as the winds died down.

Lia fell to her knees panting, dropping the smoking corpse of the last Thalmor. Then her eyes closed as she slid into unconsciousness.

“She’s just tired,” remarked the archer, a lithe womer with the indigo-shaded skin of a Dunmer, as she knelt by the Dragonborn and checked her pulse. “Somebody get her to a warm bed. I’d rather not be an appetiser for Alduin, if you please.”

“Karliah!” Brynjolf snarled. “You double-damned-!”

“I saved your woman’s life, Brynjolf. I only ask that you stay your hand until I can explain myself. Has anyone seen Mercer around?” the womer, the most notorious traitor in recent Guild history, asked in her slumberous contralto.

“No,” reported Rune. “We’ve checked everywhere.”

“So, he took advantage of the chaos to vanish. Typical,” Karliah said bitterly. “We need to check the vault _now_.”

“Fuck the vault!” Astrid snapped. “We need to make sure the Thalmor are gone!”

“Astrid, for once in your ill-begotten life, _shut the fuck up_ ,” Karliah said pleasantly. “I know why the Guild’s had a run of bad luck lately. We need to check the vault to confirm my suspicions.”

Everyone looked to Brynjolf, whose expression was helpless. Vex swallowed past the lump in her throat. This couldn’t be happening. “Sapphire, get Delvin’s key. You’re acting Night Master until we sort this mess out.”

Somehow, the complete and utter emptiness of the vault came as no surprise. Brynjolf swore savagely. “How?”

“Normally, I’d have kept this to myself, but the times are dire,” Karliah said with a sigh. “Gallus, Mercer and I were the Nightingales of Nocturnal-“

“Lady Luck?” Brynjolf interrupted. “The Goddess of the Night and Fortune?”

“The Daedric Prince of shadows, thieves and other things that go bump in the night, yes,” Karliah confirmed with some amusement. “I should have realised that the grandson of a Hag of Nocturnal would be familiar with Her.”

“I thought Nightingales were a myth to keep the young footpads in line,” Rune said with a troubled expression.

“Usually, we let myth shroud what we were. But Mercer betrayed Gallus, framed me, and stole the source of the Guild’s luck.” Karliah closed her violet eyes. “Gallus always intended you, Brynjolf, to become the Agent of Subterfuge. I’m the Agent of Shadow. And we need someone to become the Agent of Strife. In life, we will have luck in the shadows. In death, we will protect the Twilight Sepulchre until the terms of our bargains are met. Then we join the shadows to protect and guide those who follow in our footsteps.”

“To forswear Sovngarde or rebirth,” Brynjolf said in a troubled voice. “I’m no priest, Karliah.”

“It’s very much like a Guild contract.” The Dunmer glanced at the fur-wrapped Lia. “You would part from her in any case. The Dragonborn faces only apotheosis or annihilation. There is no rest in the shadows for even the shadow of a storm.”

“You’re such an expert on Dragonborn?” Astrid asked.

“My great-grandmother was Barenziah,” Karliah said simply.

Brynjolf exchanged glances with Vex. “Gods know you’re a strife-filled woman,” he observed.

She snorted. “I have little tolerance for fools, yet I’m surrounded by them.”

“Then it’s a yes, lass?”

“Do we have any other choice? If Mercer’s one of these ‘Agents’, we need to destroy him. Of course it’s a yes!”


	16. What Could Have Been

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, criminal acts, war crimes, imprisonment, genocide, child abuse and corpse desecration. I really, really wanted to keep these two together but alas, all things must come to an end.

“You missed a lot of shenanigans,” Vex remarked as Lia entered the Ragged Flagon. She wore a sleek set of armour that seemed midnight made leather, the hood pulled down to reveal her pale face. “Mercer robbed us blind during the Thalmor’s invasion and is looking for the final score that’ll set him up for life. Astrid and the Dark Brotherhood are champing at the bit to destroy the Thalmor and the Emperor. Brynjolf and I sold our souls to Nocturnal in return for some fancy armour and powers. Oh, and Karliah was trying to destroy our relationship with Maven because she wanted us to investigate why we had bad luck, but she isn’t really a traitor.”

“Fucking hell,” Lia said confusedly. “You lost me at Mercer.”

Vex sighed and handed her a bottle of mead. “You might need this before you speak to Brynjolf. A bit of alcoholic fortification will make things easier.”

That didn’t bode well, so Lia took her advice before searching for Brynjolf.

He was talking with a small fine-boned Dunmer who had to be this Karliah everyone was speaking of. “Dragonborn,” the womer said with more than a little respect. “It’s good to see you awake. I’d hate to stop Mercer only to become a passing snack for Alduin.”

“Go,” Brynjolf said quietly. “Lia and I need to talk.”

Karliah nodded, her expression regretful. “I’ll meet you at Nightingale Hall.”

The womer left the alcove and Brynjolf pushed back his long auburn hair with a sigh. “I wish you’d never been the Dragonborn, lass,” he said sadly. “We might… Well, never mind.”

Lia closed her eyes, tears stinging them, and nodded. “I understand. I wish I’d never been the Dragonborn myself.”

“You’ll always be part of the Guild, lass. You were our lucky charm… my lucky charm.” There was a faint catch in Brynjolf’s lilting voice. “Karliah’s great-granma was Barenziah-“

“Tiber Septim’s mistress,” Lia finished with a sigh. “My foremother was Aurelia Northstar, Martin Septim’s lover. That’s where I get my dragon’s blood from.”

“Aye. Karliah said as much and the papers we found on the Thalmor confirmed it.” Brynjolf drew her into an embrace, resting his forehead against hers. “The Empire struck against the Guild and the Brotherhood, lass. I understand the political necessity of you joining the Stormcloaks, but there’s too much blood and grief between me and them to be easy with it. I’m sorry, Lia.”

“I understand,” Lia said softly, tears seeping through her closed eyelids. “I’m sorry, Brynjolf.”

They held each other for a long moment, mourning what could have been, before parting forever.

…

“So you’re Delphine,” Astrid observed snidely. “You look like the sort of-“

“Astrid, Mother’s dead and there’s no point continuing an old feud on her behalf,” the woman of indeterminate ancestry who accompanied the sleekly beautiful blonde, the lizard, the Dunmer and Balgruuf’s niece said disgustedly. “We have Thalmor to kill. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Delphine blinked. “Dragonborn?”

“I was going to rob you of the horn because you attempted to manipulate me,” the Dragonborn said acidly. “But thanks to Astrid and her merry band of murderers, the Thalmor and the Legion did their damnedest to wipe out both the Guild and the Brotherhood in the search for Esbern – not knowing I’d already found him a few weeks ago and set him up in my new meadery. I’m activating you because you might as well be useful and kill a few Thalmor.”

“Why don’t you Shout it to the world I’m a Blade?” Delphine asked as acidly.

“I robbed the Imperial tax chest, changed my face and name, and the Thalmor still knew I was Aurelia fucking Callaina,” the woman retorted bitterly. “Now armour up, grab your dai-katana, and get ready to go. We’ll be stopping by Honningbrew to pick up Esbern and Avulstein Grey-Mane on the way to Northwatch Keep.”

Delphine flinched at the vitriol in her tone. This was no happy Dragonborn eager for the guidance of the Blades but a woman who knew the sins of her forebears and had no sympathy whatsoever. “Very well, Dragonborn,” she said, choosing obedience as the better part of valour for now.

Esbern was, as Lia (her new name) said, at Honningbrew with Avulstein Grey-Mane and a couple of the clan’s friends. “If we’re raiding wizards, the more, the merrier,” he explained.

“No. We’re relying on speed and stealth,” Lia said with more gentleness than Delphine expected. “There’s no honour in this, only elimination.”

The two friends looked relieved as Avulstein reluctantly agreed. “Give me three hours and I’ll have two of the best Stormcloak scouts here. Helga can shoot the eyes out of a gnat blindfolded and Ralof can be stealthy when he chooses to be.”

“No.” Lia took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Lydia, I need you to stay here. If this goes tits up, Balgruuf can’t be connected to it.”

Lydia set her jaw mulishly. “You’re my Thane. I go where you go.”

Lia swore and despite the situation, Avulstein laughed. “Looks like you won’t be so stealthy after all,” the Grey-Mane scion said.

Delphine smirked. “The Dragonborn always acquires loyal followers. Better get used to it, Lia. You may have an army when this is over.”

“I most sincerely and utterly hope not,” Lia said fervently. “We have a long slog ahead of us and an ugly battle at the end. Is everyone ready?”

“To destroy the Thalmor? I’d follow you into the Void,” Astrid said quietly.

“I hope it doesn’t come to that. I’m already pissed off enough with my father. Sharing an afterlife with him would be distressing.”


	17. Back to Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and criminal acts. The Guild arc more or less ends here.

“What's Karliah been filling your head with? Tales of thieves with honour? Oaths rife with falsehoods and broken promises? Nocturnal doesn't care about you, the Key or anything having to do with the Guild.”

“The Guild’s a family and you betrayed them,” Brynjolf said grimly. “I’ve lost the woman I could have loved and three Guildmates, Mercer. I’m in a mood to kill something and it might as well be you.”

“Then the die is cast and once again my blade will taste Nightingale blood!” Mercer retorted as he outstretched his right hand. “Come, Brynjolf, I need your blade in my-“

Water began to crash into the cave as the power of the Skeleton Key – the artefact that could unlock anything in man, mer and maybe even god – cracked apart the great copper pipes. But Mercer hadn’t counted on Brynjolf’s Nord blood and the power that Lia said was an innate Shout. The Battle-Cry struck him full in the face, making him flinch and doubt for a critical moment – and Vex, trained as an assassin by Irkand Aurelius for the Blades but choosing a less bloody path in the end, dropped her Invisibility spell and stabbed him twice in the kidneys with the elven daggers she’d looted from the Thalmor.

Mercer cried out and twisted his hand, wrenching the copper pipes out of their sockets, but Karliah’s arrow took him in the throat. He might have even survived that as the Key amplified his Restoration magic… If Brynjolf hadn’t closed in and jammed both his daggers under the ribcage to find and seek the traitor Guildmaster’s heart.

Frey quivered once and died, gasping “Shadows take me” through bloody froth.

Brynjolf ripped open the dead man’s leather jerkin to pull out the Skeleton Key. It throbbed with power, gleaming gold and gemlike enough to awaken avarice in any man’s heart, and when he lifted his hand rubble flew up to clog the gushing pipes and build a stairway back to the Dwemer ruins they’d just traversed. He understood in that moment why Frey had surrendered to temptation.

“Good riddance,” Vex snarled, spitting on Mercer’s corpse and breaking the Key’s spell over Brynjolf. He’d chosen the Guild, time and time again, and what was the solitary pursuit of limitless wealth compared to that? He’d walked away from the Dragonborn before they grew to hate each other, partly because he knew Lia was called to a higher purpose but mostly because he couldn’t bear to abandon the Guild that was his family.

“Now all that remains is to return the Key to the Twilight Sepulchre,” Karliah said with weary satisfaction. “I don’t feel worthy enough-“

“-And I better get back to sort out the Guild’s mess,” Brynjolf finished with a weary sigh. “Vex, we can do without the Evening Master for a few days. You take it back.”

“Sure,” the albino agreed readily enough. “You do realise you’re Guildmaster now, Brynjolf.”

“Fuck,” Brynjolf swore, earning a laugh from his Nightingale sisters. “Do we really need a Guildmaster? I think we’d do better as a committee. Think of how Mercer abused his power.”

“Whatever,” Vex said with a shrug as she accepted the Key. “Are we going to steal the deeds to Goldenglow and Honningbrew from Lia?”

“No,” Brynjolf said firmly. “She’s still part of the Guild. If it wasn’t for her intervention, Mercer would have gotten away and we’d have never found him again.”

They parted ways for the time being and Brynjolf accompanied Karliah to the Nightgate Inn. “I wish Gallus was around to see this,” the womer said sadly.

“If what you’ve told me about the Ebonmere, lass, he already knows,” Brynjolf said softly.

“I know, but…” Karliah sighed. “I’m sorry about you and Lia.”

“I am too,” Brynjolf admitted. “But between the politics, the dragons and the Guild, it could never have worked out. Better we part as friends.”

“You’re wiser than Gallus and I ever were. Perhaps love isn’t for our kind.”

“Perhaps, lass.”

After a night at the inn, they crossed the frozen plains of Eastmarch to reach the warmer tundra, then went south towards the Rift. Brynjolf spent most of the time considering how the Guild was going to re-establish its power in Skyrim. Riften was theirs again, Whiterun was on the verge of succumbing and before the Thalmor attacked, they’d been making headway in Windhelm.

_Bedlam and shill jobs in Markarth,_ he decided. _The place is a paranoid mess at the best of times and I reckon Omlaug might join up, if only to give the finger to the Silver-Bloods. Solitude’s too subtle for that – heist and burglary, I think. Whiterun needs only a couple more jobs before Olfrid Battle-Born decides to approach us and Niranye was begging us for assistance with those damned Summerset Shadows in Windhelm._

If he wrapped himself up in work, he could pretend his heart wasn’t aching and he wouldn’t yearn for what couldn’t be…


	18. Vengeance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, implied torture, imprisonment, war crimes, religious conflict and mentions of child abuse. It’s arse-kicking time!

Altmer, it seemed, weren’t immune to an ice spike applied directly to the eye. Avulstein, clad in light armour like everyone else on this mission, caught the gate guard and eased him to the ground so that his black and gold armour didn’t clatter and alert the others. Lydia, unhappily, was guarding the boat they’d use to make their getaway while Esbern was preparing himself to unleash a Blizzard spell or two in the sleeping quarters once they were inside. The Dragonborn, revealed to be the secret daughter of Sigdrifa Stormsword, had inherited her mother’s tactical capability and pragmatism in full.

They snuck into the courtyard, unpicking the door and slipping inside but for Lia, who used one of the Blizzard scrolls she’d bought from Farengar Secret-Fire. Balgruuf mightn’t officially approve of the mission as he was still ostensibly neutral but the Jarl had elected to look the other way as his newest Thane stocked up on all sorts of goodies to wipe out a Thalmor stronghold. Once the wall guards were dead or dying, she went around once to make sure of them all before joining them inside.

It didn’t go entirely their way as a few Altmer were still up and about but aside from a few minor wounds, the infiltrators gained access to the prison and interrogation chamber with little harm done to themselves. It was neck and neck between the Blades and the Dark Brotherhood as to who could kill the most stealthily. Avulstein settled for stifling merish cries with his hand and holding them still for the kill. Even the mages could cast their spells silently.

Despite the late hour, the bottom level of the stronghold was busy, haughty Altmer voices promising pain or an end to it depending on the prisoner’s level of cooperation. “Four,” Astrid murmured after casting Detect Life. “Two guarding the prison cells, two in the interrogation chamber.”

“You might as well give up,” said a male mer. “Your family won’t come for you, Thorald, and your god doesn’t exist.”

“Fuck… you,” Thorald said hoarsely, raggedly, but still recognisably himself.

“No, thank you. I would never debase myself with a human.”

“Steady,” Gabriella murmured sympathetically. “Your brother’s lasted this long, Stormcloak. An hour or so won’t kill him.”

Lia glowed blue-green as she cast Muffle. “Guards first,” she ordered in a whisper. “Then we rush the interrogation chamber.”

One of the guards died silently but the other managed to cry out as Avulstein stabbed him through his black robes. “What was that?” demanded the mer who’d taunted Thorald.

“Twisted my ankle,” answered Astrid, mimicking the mer’s voice perfectly.

“You always were a clumsy lout, Lothenil. I should have you report to the Ambassador to learn better grace.” The interrogator came to the door, expression annoyed. “We can’t let these mutts think we’re as oafish as-“

Thalmor were not, it seemed, immune to an ice spear through their bodies. As he collapsed with a cry, Avulstein rushed the chamber as ordered, picking up the dying mer’s body as a shield on the way through.

The final Thalmor, an older elf with sallow skin and red hair, held an elven dagger to Thorald’s throat. His brother was mostly bruised from the waist up, but his left leg was a mangled wreck and the right one didn’t look much better. “One step closer and this one dies.”

Avulstein threw the dead interrogator at the bastard, tangling him up with the corpse, and got out of the way as Gabriella entered the chamber to cast Paralyse on the Thalmor. “He needs a healer,” the Dunmer told Lia and Esbern tersely as they followed on her heels.

“Come on. Let’s get you somewhere a little more comfortable.” Avulstein freed his brother and using a Grey-Mane’s great strength, carried him to the commander’s own chamber. Behind him, the Thalmor began to scream, and he decided not to ask questions. Let the Dark Brotherhood extract an eye for an eye.

Even with the Grand Healing scroll Lia had on her, the best they could do for Thorald’s legs was straighten them enough so that he could walk with crutches. “You really don’t want to go to Sovngarde at the moment,” Lia said grimly. “Alduin will probably feast on your soul.”

“She’d know. She’s the Dragonborn,” Avulstein assured his brother.

“Take him to the boat. I want to see what the Thalmor have in their records.” Lia’s gaze glittered dangerously. “Elenwen’s about to be very, very embarrassed.”

When they returned to the boat, Veezara and Lia carried satchels of books, and the latter’s face was almost exactly like Sigdrifa’s in a rage that Avulstein shivered inwardly. “I will bring the thunder and lightning down upon Elenwen for this,” she vowed softly.

“If you ask nicely, a few hundred Stormcloaks would be proud to march with you, Dragonborn,” Thorald said gratefully. “I will be proud to march along with them.”

“No. I just need the right Shout or two,” Lia said tersely. She put her satchel in the boat. “Avulstein, you need to take these and your brother to Bjarni. I need to remain in Haafingar for a little while yet. Rikke needs to know a few things.”

“I thought you supported the Stormcloaks?” Avulstein asked in surprise.

“I said in the short term an independent Skyrim was probably the best option, given the state of the Empire at the moment,” she replied. “I served under Tullius as a clerk. If he and Rikke are made aware of what the Dominion planned… They might just choose to retreat to Cyrodiil or even make a stand against Titus Mede himself. Either way, I want the fighting to stop. Every dead Nord hero only strengthens the World-Eater.”

Thorald nodded. “I understand, Dragonborn. Bjarni’s not stupid. He’ll listen to me.”

Lia smiled thinly. “Talos go with you two.”

“You might need His favour more than us,” Avulstein pointed out.

Her eyes glittered. “I’m calling on another power. She’s more likely to lend a hand.”


	19. Mercy on Us All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, implied torture, imprisonment and mentions of war crimes, child abuse, religious conflict and child death.

“Are my men now giving free reign to anyone who wanders into the castle? Do you have some reason to be here, citizen?”

“I invited myself in,” Lia said serenely as she dropped the satchel of records from the raids on Northwatch Keep and the Thalmor Embassy on the map-table in front of General Tullius. From the stocky grey-haired Cyrod’s dark circles and unshaven cheeks, he’d been run ragged over the past few weeks between the dragons, the attempted assassination on the Emperor and the Stormcloaks’ advances. Rikke wasn’t looking much better with the lines of exhaustion carved around her eyes and mouth. Bjarni was giving them more of a fight than anticipated.

“And who are you when you’re at home?” Tullius demanded tersely.

Lia smiled thinly. “Lia Storm-Shadow. The Last Dragonborn. My friend is Lydia Istgeirsdottir, huscarl to myself and niece of the Jarl of Whiterun.”

“Balgruuf’s finally chosen a side, has he?” Rikke asked.

“Do I look like I’m delivering an axe to you? If he’d chosen a side, I’d be at the Blue Palace informing Elisif of the decision.”

“I’m the one in charge around here,” Tullius said flatly.

“And that’s why the nobles and commons alike are flocking to Bjarni. Elisif hasn’t even killed an ice wraith, for fuck’s sake, yet you expect her to appeal to the traditionalists? _I’ve_ killed one and I’ve spent the past few weeks as a member of the Thieves’ Guild.”

“General, in the Old Holds, a Nord isn’t considered an adult until they kill an ice wraith,” Rikke explained to the perplexed Tullius. “In some of the more traditional courts, a Nord couldn’t even speak or vote in the Moot until they’d done so.”

“A tradition Ulfric waived so that my dear old ma could participate in Eastmarch’s politics,” Lia added dryly. “Come to think of it, neither the Loud-Mouth or the Shieldbitch were adults by traditional standards. It certainly explains a lot.”

Tullius’ eyes narrowed. “You told Elisif you weren’t getting involved in the civil war.”

“That changed when the Thalmor, with the full connivance of certain elements in the Legion, attacked the Dark Brotherhood and the Thieves’ Guild with the instructions to eliminate me,” Lia answered coolly. “I’ve already chastised the Thalmor. Don’t bother sending for Elenwen unless you’ve got a medium who can access the Soul Cairn.”

Tullius, for all his lack of social graces, was no idiot when presented with enough information. _“Aurelia Callaina?”_

“One and the same. I stole the tax chest and found a face sculptor because I was sick of suffering for my family’s sins,” Lia confirmed. “It seems that madman I called a grandfather was correct in his claims. I can summon the Madgoddess to confirm it if you want.”

Rikke snorted. “I’ll believe it when you draw the Sword of the Septims.”

“That can be arranged,” Lia informed her sweetly. “Because once you’ve perused the Dominion records I just dumped on your table, I’m going to Windhelm to try and talk sense into Bjarni.”

“Your father attempted to murder the Emperor and succeeded in killing his male relatives!” Tullius exclaimed. “If you think-“

“I suspect that the burning ship I saw in the harbour on the way up here indicates my father succeeded in killing Mede,” Lia interrupted dryly. “Don’t worry, I’m astonished he managed to get one thing that didn’t involve womanising or adultery right.”

Despite the situation, Rikke laughed and Tullius spluttered in shock.

“The fact remains that by the oldest laws in the Empire, as Dragonborn and the last Septim who can be considered an Imperial citizen, I’m the heir to the Ruby Throne,” Lia continued calmly. “I need this damned war stopped because every Stormcloak you kill, you send Alduin World-Eater – the big black bastard who demolished your crack Legion in about five minutes – a snack. If I must claim the Imperial heirship over Akaviria Mede, I’ll do it. If I have to beat some sense into my little brothers. I’ll do it. Once Alduin is dead, _if I have to climb over a mountain of corpses as high as the one my ancestor Tiber Septim raised_ , I will unite the Empire under one banner again. The Thalmor don’t call it the ‘Great War’, Tullius; they call it ‘the First War’.”

“You’re joking,” Tullius said, shaken.

“Do you want to test me?”

“What do you want from us?” Rikke said softly as Tullius goggled.

“To meet the Stormspawn in Whiterun for a peace conference. I need this civil war either ended or put on hold until Alduin is dead. At the moment, in the short term, an independent Skyrim is the best political choice if you won’t cooperate. I’ll worry about medium and long term goals once the prophecy is fulfilled.”

“Do you think your brothers will come?” Tullius asked hoarsely.

“They will. Both of them know what the return of Alduin means for the world.”

“Do we really have a choice?”

“Not unless you want Empress Callaina.” Lia paused. “At least, from my years in the Provincial Revenue Office, I know how to run an empire.”

“Stendarr have mercy on us all.”

…

“Stendarr have mercy on us all.”

Bjarni was of a mind to agree with Egil after the compact brunette who called herself Lia Storm-Shadow drew the Sword of the Septims in front of the entire congregation at the Temple of Talos and proclaimed herself to be Aurelia Callaina Septima, the sister they’d all thought was dead. The Grey-Manes and the documents they brought forewarned them but the reality couldn’t really be prepared for, not like this.

“Tullius said almost exactly the same thing,” Lia said as she buckled the Sword at her waist. “I’d honestly rather not be an Empress if it can be avoided. I worked in the tax office. Do you know how much paperwork is involved in running an Empire? I do.”

Her tone was so matter-of-fact and wry that Bjarni found himself laughing. “So why the show?”

“Because I’m trying to end the civil war. Or at least put it on hold. Tullius has agreed to come to Whiterun for truce talks. The Thalmor have already tried to kill me once. I’ve returned the favour, of course, but it’s only temporary.”

“Why not join us and we can roll over the Empire together?” Bjarni suggested.

“Because, whether you like it or not, Cyrodiil is the heartland of Tamriel,” was her soft answer. “The Thalmor feared a resurgent Talosite dynasty and they played on the fears of certain factions in the Imperial court. If Cyrodiil crumbles, the Dominion will be on our shores sooner than we’d like.”

“Whatever happens, Hammerfell won’t be rejoining the Empire,” Cirroc told her frankly. “Our freedom is hard-won and deserved.”

“Even if I’m forced to take the Ruby Throne, I wouldn’t be rebuilding the Septim Empire,” Lia answered. “Talos was an arsehole, divinity or not. Take it from the woman with the dragon’s soul.”

Someone gasped in horror at the blasphemy but Cirroc smirked. “If you try, it would make family dinners awkward… sister.”

“I’d been planning to retire in Stros M’kai when I told you to piss off,” she said dryly. “Given what I said to Father, family dinners would already be awkward.”

“More awkward then.”

Bjarni felt the eyes of his people on him. “I’ll agree to the truce on the understanding Tullius accepts we hold Falkreath and Hjaalmarch. I’d press forward, but as you said, the heroic dead will only empower Alduin.”

“I think you’d find the Reach a tough nut to crack,” Lia mused. “But I’ll make sure Tullius behaves.”

“How will you do that?” Galmar rumbled.

“Being descended from an aspect of the Daedric Prince of Madness has its advantages.”

_By the gods,_ Bjarni thought with a shudder, _I’m glad she’s not my enemy._

May the gods have mercy on them all.


	20. Epilogue: Twenty-Five Years Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, war crimes, religious conflict and child abuse. The end is here, folks.

“Come now, don't be shy. You haven't come this far just to stand there gawking.”

“No, I came here to kill you,” Rustem drawled. “You’ll be dining with your son and grandson in the Void tonight.”

Titus Mede sighed. “Oh, you can save your sinister bravado. I'll not go to my grave whimpering like an infant. I know why you're here. I must die. And you must deliver the blow. It is simply the way it is.”

“This isn’t business, Mede,” Rustem said, grabbing the old man by the shoulders and spinning him around to face the assassins. “This is very, very personal. For Hammerfell. For Cloud Ruler Temple. And for my daughter.”

“Rustem Aurelius.” Titus bit out the name like a curse.

“Rustem ibn Setareh al-Bruma,” Rustem corrected. “I’m a Son of Satakal, for what it’s worth. And my daughter’s the Last Dragonborn.”

“If you’re expecting me to act shocked, I won’t oblige you,” Mede said dryly. “The only reason she lived to reach adulthood was because both the Madgoddess and the High Priest of Akatosh told me the entire world would regret it if she died. Seeing what you’ve done to my Empire… I should have ignored them. Better the world vanish into the maw of the World-Eater than be torn apart by the Aldmeri Dominion.”

“You really are a selfish prick, aren’t you?” Rustem asked. “Killing you will make the world a better place.”

“Will it? All I have done in my life is to preserve the Empire. You and your line of mad Septims would destroy it.” Rustem must have shown his shock, because Mede smiled sourly. “I’ve known. I’ve always known. Ocato made mention of Julius Martin in his personal writings.”

“Arius was a mad bastard,” Rustem agreed as he collected himself. “But believe me, you’re as insane in your way too. Any last requests?”

“Kill Motierre? If you’re going to wipe out my entire line, I’d prefer a more competent, less Thalmor-indebted cousin to make a bid for the Ruby Throne.”

“I was going to kill him anyway. The more confusion in the Empire, the better.”

“You’d really see the world burn in the name of ‘vengeance’?”

“Not the world. Just the Empire,” Rustem said as he brought down the naginata. “The Empire isn’t the centre of the world as you’d like to believe.”

It was done. Justice had finally been served, twenty-five years cold, to Titus Mede II. Rustem wiped off his naginata and nodded to Cicero and Jenassa. “Let’s loot this place and burn it to the ground.”

Burning the Empire down could start with the Emperor’s personal craft.


End file.
